


What if .....

by Thorntonsheart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2019-11-23 19:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18156005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorntonsheart/pseuds/Thorntonsheart
Summary: What if everything we thought we knew from season 3 and 4 isn't quite how it happened?“You’re going to need to acknowledge my presence at some point, Sherlock.”  The voice echoes in the sparse room, its self-righteous tones unsoftened by the feminine tones.  His only visible reaction is to hunch his shoulders up further and clasp his hands so tightly together that the colour leeches out of his skin.





	1. What if .... What if the shot is taken and an innocent man falls?

**Author's Note:**

> I've taken liberties with how season 3 and 4 play out. This story starts soon after Sherlock leaves the hospital.  
> I don't really want to say too much here as I don't want to ruin the way the story plays out. I truly hope you enjoy it, I suspect it will turn out to be another of my long stories!

The room glows a bright white under the harsh glare of the hospital lighting, leaving even healthy skin looking sallow under its bleaching effect, visitors and patients pasty in its wake.  The bedcovers lay smooth and crisp over the prone figure, the form somehow diminished in its almost complete stillness.  The only hint of life comes from the slight rise and fall of a slim chest and the reassuring mechanical beep of the heart monitor. 

A small noise disturbs Sherlock’s contemplation of the figure in the bed, reminding him that there is another person in the room with them; someone whose presence he has been trying, unsuccessfully, to ignore.  The harsh susurrous of cheap, rough denim being rubbed makes him wince but still his gaze remains fixed on the man in the bed.  An impatient sigh gusts out from the other person - unnecessary person, Sherlock’s mind provides - along with more shuffling, causing a waft of the cloying scent of Claire-de-la-lune to assault his nostrils; every last instinct is willing Sherlock to either attack or run.  He does neither.  The defenceless person in the bed is too dear to him for rash decisions, no matter how much gratification Sherlock himself might garner from wiping the smug, self-satisfied smirk from the woman’s face.

“You’re going to need to acknowledge my presence at some point, Sherlock.”  The voice echoes in the sparse room, its self-righteous tones unsoftened by the feminine tones.  His only visible reaction is to hunch his shoulders up further and clasp his hands so tightly together that the colour leeches out of his skin.

“Sher-lock.” The syllables of his name are elongated, almost sung, the sound taunting in its indifference.  She doesn’t really care whether Sherlock responds to her or not but it alleviates the boredom of waiting.  She knows that she should at least pretend to appear to be concerned about the man in the bed but she simply can't find the energy to maintain the facade of good, concerned, _boring_ when it is only Sherlock to witness her apathy over the whole situation.  She laughs when Sherlock hunches further in on himself, the sound incongruous in the hospital room.

A slight movement from the bed alerts Sherlock to the approaching consciousness of the man ensconced upon it. The anaesthetic has taken precisely the amount of time Sherlock was informed it would to wear off.  His limbs protest when he stands, still weak from his own injuries and subsequent decampment from his own hospital bed.  A bid to protect a dear friend, an ultimately futile bid.  He shakes his head to clear the image of a body lying on the cold, concrete floor of an empty house, in a pool of its own blood.  Now is not the time to be dwelling on those events.  A quick visual sweep of the bed reassures him that the person is suffering no distress as he walks, albeit more slowly than he is accustomed to, to the door, dragging his drip stand along with him.  The morphine delivery is on as low as possible whilst still maintaining a clear head and a manageable level of pain.

“Nurse! He’s coming round.” Sherlock returns to the bedside, this time standing close enough that the person on it will be able to see him with little effort, his hands wrap around the metal side of the bed to help support his weight.

“John? John, can you hear me?”  Sherlock purposefully keeps his voice soft, quiet, but the warble of emotion is still apparent and he silently curses the fact that Mary is here to witness his weakness. He’d like to believe it was only momentary but he knows, at least where John is concerned, it is anything but that.  His very own damsel in distress.

A figure crosses through the watery shafts of sunlight that battle their way through the grime that always seems to coat the windows of an inner city hospital, causing sudden shadows to dance over the bare walls. The almost silent footsteps of rubber soled shoes on the linoleum floor announces the arrival of the nurse to Sherlock as clearly as if they had shouted their name and purpose. Sherlock only consciously registers the man’s appearance - dark brown, almost black hair worn in a long, low ponytail, still neatly secured, indicative that he is at the start of his shift; bright green eyes flecked with blue, a nod to a less mundane heritage than his freckled pale skin would suggest; competent and at ease with his movements, suggestive of at least ten years experience in a job that he clearly loves - when he moves directly in to Sherlock’s line of sight, checking and double checking the machine displays before manually taking John’s pulse and blood pressure.

Long, dark blonde lashes flutter against pale cheeks before slowly drifting open, several slow blinks later and John’s sluggish gaze settles on Sherlock.  The smile that glides across his lips and brightens his eyes lends an air of boyish roguishness to John’s features and Sherlock can’t help but return the smile.

“Hello beautiful.” The words tumble easily from John’s lips, only slightly slurred from the lingering effects off the anaesthetic. The greeting causes heat to rush to Sherlock’s cheeks, adding colour to his usually pale complexion. “Wow, you are so gorgeous.” 

The edge of genuine wonder to John’s words echoes the ‘amazing’ and ‘brilliant’ of long ago compliments.  Back to when John still found Sherlock to be worthy of wonder and praise; before John became disillusioned with Sherlock; before Sherlock left him broken and alone on the pavement outside St. Bart’s Hospital. Their relationship is still somewhat fraught since Sherlock’s return, that and Mary’s constant presence in John’s life, has done nothing to encourage the reappearance of their easy camaraderie of days now seemingly long gone.

“John, I…” Sherlock begins but words fail him when John continues to smile up at him, attraction colouring the soft pink of his lips and adding a bright spark to his dark blue eyes. Sherlock blinks rapidly in confusion, hoping that each blink will provide a solution, but none comes.  

John’s gaze passes over Sherlock slowly, his look appreciative as he takes in the whole of Sherlock, from slightly scuffed shoes to tousled curls.  John runs his tongue over his lower lip and tries to sit up, the movement causes Sherlock to jolt forward in an effort to stop him, jerking at the IV catheter in his hand. Sherlock hisses in pain but continues to reach for John, he soon realises that his aid is unnecessary as John has stilled, his eyes fixed firmly on where the IV enters Sherlock’s hand.

“You’re hurt?” John reaches for Sherlock’s hand and, much to his own surprise, Sherlock allows him to take it. For a moment John just holds his hand, gently smoothing over the skin with light fingertips, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s, sadness at Sherlock’s pain clear on his expressive face.  

A cough from the edge of the room reminds Sherlock that they are not alone and he reluctantly removes his hand from John’s grasp, clearing his throat as he looks away. The heat of John’s touch remains on Sherlock’s skin and he has to resist the temptation of bringing his hand up to his lips, the move would be too telling, especially to someone astute as Mary.

“It’s nothing, I got ….hurt but I’m healing now.”Sherlock dismisses, sparing a glance in Mary’s direction, looking quickly away when she smirks at him, her eyes too knowing.

For the first time since waking up John’s attention is drawn towards Mary.  His brow crinkles into a frown as he studies her but he soon looks away, dismissing her as unimportant, his focus firmly back on Sherlock. John is smiling again, his eyelids heavy, giving him the look of the mildly inebriated. Once again Sherlock is unable to keep an affectionate smile from drifting across his face.

“Who hurt you?” John demands again, his brows furrowed, his features suddenly intent. “I’ll kill them.”

“No.  You won’t, John.  You’ll forgive them and move on with your life.”

“Nooo, if someone hurts you, I hurt them.”  John says slowly, as if talking to a child. He suddenly smiles.  “I’m a little muddled right now but I know that much.”

“I think if you were thinking straight..” Sherlock frowns when a giggle from John interrupts him. “You’ll realise that forgiving them is the only thing to do.  For your own safety and happiness.”

For a long, drawn out moment John just stares at Sherlock, his face serious until he blinks and then suddenly it’s like he’s someone else as all the tension leaves his features.

“ ‘Kay. I need to sleep now, beautiful. Let me look after you later, I’m a doctor.” John’s speech slows and begins to slur as his blinks grow sluggish until he finally drifts off to sleep.  The last of the anaesthesia in his system pulling him back to the land of Morpheus. 

Sherlock remains at John’s bedside, his hands loosely clasped in his lap, long fingers unconsciously tracing where John had caressed his hand, his expression thoughtful.

“Mr Holmes?” The nurse’s soft tones break Sherlock from his silent contemplation and he looks up. “Time for you to return to your room.”  With an easy movement the nurse reaches to help Sherlock out of his chair, flinching when Sherlock wrenches his shoulder  out of reach.

“No.”  The word is quiet but no less vehement for it, the full force of Sherlock’s glare now focuses on the nurse who, to his credit and Sherlock’s unspoken surprise, refuses to back down.

“I’m afraid I must insist that you return to your own room, Mr Holmes.  You were allowed to remain at Doctor Watson’s side only on the condition that you returned to your room after he regained consciousness.  That has happened, you have seen that for yourself, spoken with him.  At the risk of repeating myself, which I know you abhor, you need to return to your room.  May I remind you, that you are also in recovery.”  The nurse is adamant but remains calm, a sure sign that Sherlock Holmes is far from being the only obstinate patient he has encountered. 

“You were ‘permitted’ to leave earlier, under your brother’s care and support, but that was against the Doctor’s recommendations.  Frankly, you are extremely lucky not to be back on the operating table yourself.  The stress and strain you obviously placed yourself under could easily have led to internal bleeding that may have caused your heart to stop. Again.”  Sherlock winces, the truth touches far too close to home but he stands his ground, refusing to leave John alone with Mary.  “At this moment in time you are back under the care of the hospital and you need to return to your room.  At once.”

Mary sniggers from her position by the door; she has always enjoyed seeing Sherlock being put in his place and the red flush on those ridiculous cheekbones is evidence of Sherlock’s humiliation at being told what to do. She settles more comfortably and gleefully watches the scene unfold. 

“I agreed that I would continue with my own recuperation once I knew that John had safely regained consciousness after his surgery . He obviously has not!  He is spouting absolute nonsense! I know that this may not seem unusual to you but I know him better than most other people.  He would never say something like that! Not to me.” Sherlock’s chest heaves with barely suppressed anger.

“Mr Holmes, please lower your voice. Doctor Watson needs to sleep now.” The nurse insists, remaining calm, undaunted by Sherlock’s anger.  “The reason for his unusual choice of conversation topic is because of the small amount of anaesthesia that remains in his system.”  The nurse looks meaningfully in Mary’s direction but continues when she nods at him.  “It has merely temporarily lowered his inhibitions.”

“This is more than _merely_ lowered inhibitions.” Sherlock stands and moves well within the nurse’s personal space, silver-blue eyes cold and intense.  “This is completely out of character for John and I need you to..”

“That’s enough now, Sherlock.  Let the man do his job.”  The words are softly spoken but carry an undertone of steel in a voice that causes Sherlock to bristle even more.  He whirls around to confront the man standing in the doorway, cursing when the tubing of his IV once again snags and pulls.  Mycroft Holmes stands straight and tall, his suit immaculate, his ubiquitous umbrella held loosely in his hand; his attention is apparently solely on Sherlock but small tells, such as the tightening of his brow and a slight dip on the left side of his mouth, indicate that he is well-aware of where Mary still leans beside the door, smirking.

“I am not leaving John alone, Mycroft.”

“Nor do I expect you to.  I will remain with him for the next five hours, then Detective Inspector Lestrade will take over from me.  At no time will Doctor Watson be left unattended.” Mycroft reassures, adjusting his stance slightly to lean his weight on his umbrella.  “Rest assured, little brother, I will keep you appraised of the situation.”

“And what about me?”  Mary demands indignant, her arms folded tightly over her chest. “He won’t be alone, I’ll be here.”

Mycroft finally faces her, his mouth turns down in barely disguised disgust.  “Given your very recent history with both my brother and Doctor Watson do you honestly believe I would allow you to remain here unsupervised?” His eyebrows rise up to his sparse hairline. “I am allowing you your freedom, for the time being, that is as far as my largesse goes.”

“I am his wife..”

“Currently, Ms Morstan.” Mycroft interrupts, emphasising her unmarried name and ignoring the way Mary scowls in response. “Doctor Watson may wish to reconsider his marital status once he is fully on the road to recovery.  I would not hold my breath, if I were you.”

Mary stalks over to the empty visitor’s chair, determined to reassert her authority, and sits down, taking her time to adjust her coat and jeans, ensuring that both fall precisely, before reaching for John’s hand.  Her action falters slightly as a hiss of protest from Sherlock breaks the newly formed quiet of the sterile room, when no action follows Sherlock’s noise of dissent she takes John’s left hand in her own, ensuring that the bright light of the room reflects off the still shiny surface of their wedding rings.  It’s a petty move, she knows, but she just can't resist rubbing Sherlock’s nose in the fact that John is hers.  John wears her brand, after all. Mary does so love to see the great detective squirm, and yes, his discomfort is apparent in the flex of his jaw and the clench of his fists.  Big brother looks on, apparently unaffected but she knows that beneath that icy exterior beats the heart of a man who will do anything for his brother. Another great man who can be brought low by emotion.

For a moment John’s hand remains limp and passive within hers, his skin oddly cool to the touch; an unpleasant sensation that she actively has to fight against to remain holding his hand. A slight twitch, then tightening of the muscles in his fingers indicate that he is becoming aware of her touch.  Briefly, she believes that John is going to actively engage in the hand-holding but her, albeit shallow, hopes are dashed when he pulls his hand out of her grasp, a pained frown upon his brow and a mumbled ‘Sherlock,’ escaping his lips before he settles back in to a deeper sleep.  His face once again calm and worry free.

Reassured that Mycroft will keep a sharp eye on both Mary and John, Sherlock allows himself to be lead from the room and along the corridor to his own room.  The flowers from his original stay still remain but they are starting to wilt and droop, betraying the passing of time.  Time that Sherlock devoutly wishes he could turn back, back to before John got hurt.  He muses that if he could truly turn back time he would rewind it right back to when he sacrificed himself for his friends; he would find a way to let John know he was safe, to trust John not to betray that information and to continue to keep Lestrade and Mrs Hudson out of danger. It’s an idle thought that he doesn't allow to linger for long, that way heartache lies.

The nurse allows Sherlock some privacy whilst he changes out of his blood-stained coat and suit and in to the pyjamas that a kindly Mrs Hudson had brought him on her last visit.  He feels a stab of guilt that he involved her in his scheme to reveal Mary for what she truly is, no matter how small the part Mrs Hudson played was.  He knows now the danger that even those that he believed Mary to care for are in.  The nurse re-enters the room with quiet efficiency and helps him climb back on to the bed.  The sheets are clean but feel harsh and cold against him and he shivers involuntarily.  Despite their earlier disagreement the nurse remains friendly and professional and immediately takes a soft-blanket from the small cupboard in the room and spreads it over Sherlock.  Sherlock nods his thanks and finally allows himself to admit how exhausted he truly is.  A swift visual check confirms that his morphine feed is at an adequate rate before he permits his eyes to close, he barely registers the sound of the nurse closing the door behind him as he leaves.  Sleep washes over him quickly and, thankfully, it is dreamless.

 

It feels like mere minutes have passed when he wakes but the small amount of sky he can see through his window confirms that it is now night.  There are no stars visible this far in the city and any moon that there may be is hidden from Sherlock’s view, thus impeding his ability to estimate the time.

“It’s just gone four a.m, your brother is still in with John.  Mary went home several hours ago, probably best in her condition.  I didn't mean to wake you.  I just wanted to see for myself that you're safe.”  Lestrade’s fatherly voice breaks through Sherlock’s musings, surprising him with both his presence and his perceptiveness.  Sherlock realises that it must have been the sound of Lestrade entering the room that woke him. 

 

“She left?”  Sherlock queries, before clearing his throat and raising the head of his hospital bed to an upright position. He reaches for the glass of water on the bedside cabinet.  It’s room temperature but it’s still welcome, easing the scratchy dryness in his throat and clearing his head somewhat.

“Yeah.” Lestrade’s simplistic answer belies the sharp wit and intelligence that Sherlock knows lies beneath his slightly shabby exterior.  He studies Lestrade intently, from his scuffed and battered shoes to his messy grey hair.  Lestrade sips from a paper cup of black coffee; strong, bitter, from the machine in the hospital foyer; up for thirty hours so far, no, thirty-six.  He sits in a relaxed sprawl in the hard visitor’s chair, well used to taking comfort wherever he can find it.

“Aren’t you supposed to be taking over from Mycroft?”

“Not yet, got another hour or so until it’s my turn.As I have the time, and you're awake, how about you tell me what the hell happened?”He takes another sip of his coffee, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock.

“Shouldn’t you have taken the opportunity to grab some sleep?” Sherlock queries, in a weak attempt to delay the discussion he knows he needs to have with Lestrade.

“At this point in my life I’ve pretty much accepted the fact that I’m practically nocturnal.” Lestrade chuckles wearily, dragging his free hand over his stubbled chin. “Enough of the delaying tactics, Sherlock.  I need to know what happened from the moment you left this hospital to the moment you came back.”

“You may regret asking that of me, Lestrade.”  Sherlock drinks more of his water and settles himself more comfortably on his bed.  “I’ll have to revisit events from before I got injured to make you truly understand the extent of what has happened, and the repercussions that will come from it.”

“I visited the offices of Charles Magnussen on behalf of a high ranking client, who shall remain nameless.  I had managed to talk my way in to the main offices and when John and I arrived Magnussen’s P.A and his security staff were all unconscious, manually knocked out. John stayed with the P.A whilst I went upstairs to locate Magnussen, I was certain he was still in the building. I could hear Magnussen talking, pleading really, and when I pushed open the door he was there, on his knees, being held at gunpoint.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for revisiting the part where his brain let him down, where human error had really come in to play.

“Magnussen was telling his attacker that her husband was a good man.  Lestrade, I was so certain that the person holding the gun was my client, there wasn't a doubt in my mind.  They wore the same perfume, had the same build and stance.  I didn't see it, Greg.”  Greg’s eyes widen at the sound of his given name but he remains silent. “I didn't see it and I let John down. I never guessed that she was like that. I knew she was a liar, but then who isn’t? But I never knew she was like that, I swear.”

“Who, Sherlock?  Who had Magnussen at gunpoint?” Lestrade asks, both hands crushing his empty coffee cup.

“Mary. Mary Watson.” Sherlock can hear the calmness of his own voice but his heart is pounding in his chest and his palms are sweating, he resists wiping them on his bedsheets. “Whatever she thinks Magnussen has on her it is serious enough for her to be prepared to silence him, permanently. I….I..” He swallows and licks his lips before continuing. “I offered to help her. I believed she’d let me but she wasn't interested, she simply turned the gun on me.  I tried to reason with her. I thought she was scared, in need of protection. I was wrong.  She shot me with barely a pause.”

“What the f…” Standing suddenly, Lestrade starts to pace angrily around the room, running his hand through his hair, muttering to himself. Halting by his chair he takes a few deep, cleansing breaths before sitting back down and scrubbing his hands down his face.  “Mary. John’s Mary, shot you?”  Sherlock responds with a short nod.

“I knew John would need to know who shot me, that he wouldn't stop until he found out so I tried to set up a scenario where he could discover the truth in a controlled manner. I truly believed I could get Mary to show remorse and admit to needing help if she was in the right setting.  John needed to witness it for himself, it was the only way he would understand.”

Lestrade indicates for Sherlock to continue, his face world-weary, tired with but unsurprised at all the ugliness the world had to offer.

“Mycroft collected me from the hospital and drove me to Leinster Gardens. He knew what had happened and understood why I wanted to confront Mary in that manner.  He wasn't happy, but he did it.  I had purposefully left the window in this room open to make you and John believe I had simply climbed out of the window.” There’s a fleeting smirk before sadness once again clouds Sherlock’s face.  “I knew Mary would know the right people to ask and, sure enough, she found her way to me. Numbers twenty-three and twenty-four Leinster Gardens. Demolished except for their facade and a small space behind, perfect for what I needed. A controlled confrontation of Mary.  John deserved the truth. I swore to myself I would never lie to him again about things that directly concerned his safety after … after I left him.”

Lestrade nods, acknowledging that he knows what Sherlock is referring to.

“I believed that John would be safe but I still insisted he wore a bulletproof vest.  He sat in a wheelchair at the far end of the corridor: it was dark, poorly lit, he was really only a silhouette. I communicated with Mary via a headset, even once she was inside the house.  I goaded her in to showing off her shooting skills, thinking I could make John believe she hadn't meant to kill me.  Even though I didn't believe that myself.  I thought she’d choose a small piece of masonry or a mark on the wall.  Again, I was wrong.  She took a shot at the figure at the end of the corridor.  I suspect she believed it to be me; I reacted too late.  The bullet tore through John’s upper arm; he’d anticipated her actions and was throwing himself out of the chair when the shot hit. It was like he was falling in slow motion, he fell awkwardly, slamming in to a wall before crumpling to the floor.”  Sherlock closes his eyes, the image of John’s fall still crystal clear.

“Mary refused to leave but she showed no remorse, no emotion.  She said she hadn't intended to shoot John but she still hasn't acted like she cares that she did.  I’m supposed to be the uncaring sociopath but she is more unfeeling than I have ever been.”  He doesn't allow Lestrade to contest his assessment of himself, continuing to speak even though he knows Lestrade wants to speak. 

“She took her name and birth date from a gravestone five years ago.  She has the skill set of a spy or assassin and she approaches murder without hesitation, without flinching.  John needs to be protected from her.  At least until he is well enough to decide what happens to her.”

“She shot the pair of you.” Lestrade interjects. “What happens next is that I arrest her for attempted murder!”

“No, Lestrade. You will not.”

“It’s not for you to decide, Sherlock.  She broke the law.”  

“If John refuses to press charges, so will I.  I will remove the bullets from evidence.  I will find witnesses that place Mary elsewhere at the times that both John and I were shot.  You will have nothing to go on.  No case.”  Sherlock insists, his face implacable.

“Jesus, Sherlock.”  Lestrade scrubs his hands through his hair again.  “Fine. Fine, I won’t press any charges.  For now.  Not until I know how John wants to proceed.  The sooner you two sort out your act, the better.”

Noise from down the corridor stops Sherlock from querying what Lestrade meant.  It is coming from the direction of John’s room; raised voices and the squeaking, rattling sound of a hospital bed being moved.  Throwing back his covers Sherlock begins to get out of his bed but before he can put his bare feet firmly on the floor Mycroft enters the room. 

“John has been rushed back into surgery. I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

 

 

 

 


	2. What if it gets worse before it gets better?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ”Sherlock.” The touch of a warm hand on his shoulder makes the flow of images falter before beginning to slow. It is only then that he comprehends he has been pressing his hands so hard against his temples that his fingers physically hurt. He eases them away, leaving a phantom impression of them lingering on his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with a head injury and the operation related to such. The operation itself is spoken about in relatively brief terms by a medical person. I throughly researched the injury, the operation and the recovery, finding the NHS and the charity Headway to be especially helpful.
> 
> For those of you not familiar with quirky English TV The Last Of The Summer Wine is about three older gentlemen getting up to mischief and mayhem in their daily lives. It was a wonderful programme and something I used to adore watching in my childhood.

Sherlock slumps back on to his hospital bed as his blood runs cold, nausea crashing over him in waves.He subliminally registers the conversation being conducted in urgent whispers by the door, can feel the tendrils of worry that Lestrade is exuding.John was supposed to be getting better; he was supposed to be on the road to recovery. John had been admitted to hospital for a bullet wound, nothing out of the norm for a busy city hospital.He’d had been alert and talking, swearing really, all the way to the hospital.Sherlock revisits his memories of the injury and what the paramedics had said, looking for something he may have missed initially.John had taken a relatively straightforward gunshot wound to his right upper arm, the bullet had passed clean through flesh and muscles, clipping the bone during its passage.The surgery had been an uncomplicated operation to close the wound site, repair the damaged muscles and to remove any splinters of bone. Sherlock tries to envisage the myriad of possibilities that could conceivably have put John back on the operating table.He runs through scenario after scenario in his mind palace, image after image flashes by in a startling, brilliant technicolour race; but in his frightened state he can make sense of none of them.His mind-palace failing him when it matters most.

“Sherlock.”  The touch of a warm hand on his shoulder makes the flow of images falter before beginning to slow. It is only then that he comprehends he has been pressing his hands so hard against his temples that his fingers physically hurt.  He eases them away, leaving a phantom impression of them lingering in his skin.

“Brother-mine, I need you to calm down.  This is not of help to John.”  It is Mycroft’s uncharacteristically compassionate words that draw Sherlock completely out of his mind palace.  Mycroft does not ‘do’ emotions, he truly is the iceman personified; even as Sherlock thinks this, he acknowledges that it’s not true.  Mycroft has always been there for Sherlock, often against his own better judgement.

As he regains the full use of his mental faculties Sherlock becomes even more aware of his physical self and, in particular, the intense pain in his chest.  It’s a tangible reminder of his own healing state.  He keeps his eyes open and fixed upon his brother’s carefully blank face, only Mycroft’s steel blue eyes betray his true emotions.  Sympathy tempered with understanding; an unusual look on him, but not completely unfamiliar to Sherlock.  Slowly, Sherlock wills the tension to leave his body and with it some of his pain begins to disperse. He realises that during his panic he had brought his knees up to his chest and he works now on slowly lowering his legs, wincing when his bare feet hit the cold floor, a shock against his over-heated skin.  A slight feeling of light-headedness is indicative of how close he had been to hyperventilating and Sherlock continues to concentrate on breathing evenly. 

“What happened?” Sherlock asks once he has full control over his breathing, ignoring the way Mycroft’s eyes widen briefly at the barely suppressed panic in his voice.

“I’m afraid I have very little information for you.”  Mycroft shifts his weight until he is leaning lightly on his umbrella, removing his hand from Sherlock’s shoulder and resting it, overlapping the other, on the handle.  His outward appearance is suggestive of detachment but the way his hands periodically clench is a tell of emotional disquiet that Sherlock has been able to recognise for many years.  “John remained in a deep, apparently restful, sleep until approximately thirty minutes ago.  He then appeared to stretch before going stiff, this was followed by a series of convulsions.”

Once again Sherlock feels a warm, broad palm come to rest on his shoulder, ordinarily he would take exception to how everyone feels like they have the right to manhandle him, but Sherlock cannot deny the comfort he derives from it.  Lestrade has moved to stand beside him, his body angled so that he manages to both block out the interference from the rest of the hospital and provide much needed, if rarely acknowledged, support.  Lestrade stands silently by, helping to ground Sherlock as Mycroft continues.

“The medical staff responded swiftly and efficiently, I vacated the room so that they had room to work. I positioned myself so that I was able to observe what was happening through the open doorway. They heavily sedated John which appears, at least temporarily, to have halted the convulsions. As they wheeled him out they informed me that he was being taken for a CT scan and then almost certainly on to surgery. They appeared to have a firm hypothesis on what they were dealing with.”

“That’s it? That’s all the mighty Mycroft Holmes was able to ascertain?”  Sherlock mocks, fear once again overpowering reason. Fleetingly he chastises himself for still being unable to deal with his fear.  He has felt it so many times in the last few years that surely it should feel more like an old friend by now? Something he can greet with equanimity?

“Sherlock, what would you rather I do?”  Weariness colours Mycroft’s voice, he closes his eyes, pinching at the bridge of his nose as his shoulders droop. “Delay the surgeon by asking numerous questions or allow him to go about his job and quite possibly save your good doctor’s life?”

Opening his mouth to deliver a scathing retort, Sherlock halts when the hand on his shoulder tightens in warning, followed by a sharp ‘Gentlemen, please.’  He forces himself to take a few, deep breaths and only when he believes he can speak dispassionately, does he do so.

“He is not my anything, except perhaps for my friend.”  He ignores the pang of sadness he feels at his words.

“I think all of us in this room know he means a lot more to you than that,” Lestrade interjects, continuing to speak over Sherlock’s mumbled protest.  “And that you’d like for your relationship with him to be rather more than just good friends.  There’s no shame in it, Sherlock.”  Lestrade voices the thoughts and feelings that Sherlock was convinced he had kept so well-hidden, often even from himself.  He really must stop underestimating the Detective Inspector.

“All hearts are broken.  All lives end.  Caring is not an advantage, Lestrade.” Sherlock flatly intones, it’s a lesson he has known for as long as he can remember.

“Where the hell did you hear that crap?”  Lestrade’s words imply that he doesn't know the likely source of the phrase but the quick, narrow-eyed glare he flashes in Mycroft’s direction refutes that.  “Yeah, some relationships are shit, some are beautiful, some are duplicitous, some are full of honesty.  But we learn and we grow from every experience, no matter how painful it might be.  If we cut ourselves off from human emotions, the good and the bad, then we stagnate and we might as well be dead.”  Lestrade turns to face Mycroft.  “Caring is always an advantage.  Always.”

Mycroft raises an incredulous eyebrow and turns away but not before Sherlock can see the red stain of a blush colouring his cheeks.  Sherlock raises a bony shoulder in a half-hearted shrug when Lestrade’s, overly observant, gaze flicks back to him.

“It is immaterial how I do, or do not, feel about John.  My love, be it platonic or otherwise, will not suddenly cure John.  It will not make everything better.  Oh, what a sweet world it would be, if that was only true. Love really does not conquer all, Detective.”  Bitterness and disappointment give Sherlock’s words a harsher edge than he had intended.

“And yet, according to your ramblings whilst under the effects of drugs, you believe you pulled yourself back from the brink of death simply because you believed that John Watson was in danger.”  Mycroft interjects, his words in direct contrast to his oft repeated sayings.  “Your heart had stopped, Sherlock.  That is on record.  As is the fact that the doctors attending you had ceased in their efforts to revive you.  And yet, here you are.”  He faces Sherlock with open palms.

“I was mentally comprised, Mycroft, you should know better than to take me seriously when I’m high.”

“I have found, little brother, that is precisely when you are often at your most truthful.”

“Lestrade, tell him. You know better than to trust a drug user.”  The word ‘addict’ hangs unspoken and heavy in the stale hospital air.

“I’m staying out of this one, boys.”  He eases his weight back so that he is sitting more comfortably on the bed next to Sherlock. “I gave up years ago trying to understand the workings of the Holmes’ mind, too convoluted for a simple soul like me.”  He flashes them both a deceptively innocent smile before loosely folding his arms.

Sherlock fervently wishes everyone would just shut up.  His head is beginning to pound and his eyes are gritty from too little sleep, with each blink feeling like sandpaper being drawn over his eye.  He knows, realistically, that if he is left to his own devices he will agonise continually over John; dissecting all their interactions until he is too exhausted to be of any help to anyone, least of all John.

For a moment an uneasy silence hangs in the air, neither Holmes’ brother prepared to be the first one to speak.  Once again, it is Lestrade who breaks the stalemate.

“Anyone for a game of cards?”  He asks, sliding off the bed.

He pats his hands over the front of his coat in a distracted manner before smiling and thrusting his right hand deep in to his pocket.  His smile broadens in to a grin when he triumphantly pulls a pack of cards out.  They look almost as crumpled as his overcoat but, for once, neither Mycroft or Sherlock deem to comment.  Lestrade lazily stretches before shrugging his coat off, folding it over the end of the bed.  He manoeuvres Sherlock’s table so that it is over the mattress next to Sherlock before sitting back on the bed himself, the table between them.

Sherlock studies Lestrade intently as he works; despite his apparent calm the signs of stress and worry are apparent in the creases at the edges of his eyes and in the way his ready smiles don't quite reach said worried brown eyes.  John and Lestrade have been good friends for years and before Sherlock’s absence they had regularly spent numerous evenings down the pub, both drowning their sorrows and celebrating their successes.  Sherlock finally knows the worth of a good friend and empathises strongly with Lestrade.

A muted thump alerts Sherlock to the fact that Mycroft has moved a chair so that it is closer to the bed.  With an ease of movement more indicative of reclining in an armchair than a rickety hospital chair, Mycroft joins them.

“What game would you suggest, Gregory?”  Mycroft enquires, his features open and expectant, a slight smile playing over his lips.

“Gregory?”  Sherlock splutters, reluctantly amused.

“It’s my name. Gregory, or in the shortened form, Greg.  For a supposedly brilliant man you do have a remarkably hard time remembering names.”

“Only yours.”  Sherlock retorts absentmindedly, his thoughts faraway on a cosy pub in Dartmoor, the sound of a ghostly hound baying in the distance.

“I’ll consider myself special, then.”  Lestrade answers good-naturedly, a quiet chuckle from Mycroft brings an answering smile to his features. “Let’s have a basic game of Black Jack, I’m not sure any of us can focus on anything more complex.”  He deals each of them two cards before setting the rest of the pack on the table between them.  “First person to twenty-one wins that hand,  picture cards are worth ten, aces are worth eleven or one, dependent on the need.”  He raises his free hand, halting the anticipated interruptions. “I don't care what other rules you know; these are my cards, so we play by my rules.”

They play companionably for a while, silent except for the small amount of speech that is necessary for the game, before Sherlock reluctantly admits that he needs to sleep.  He’s been struggling to stay awake for the last hour, waiting on news of John; but his own recovery and the related medication have finally beaten him. He feels a level of bone-deep exhaustion that he hasn't felt since his time away.  Then, he’d gone almost a week on nothing but a few stolen minutes of sleep here and there, much good that did him.  He'd still ended up captured and in need of his big brother to come rescue him.  Even now the thought leaves a bitter taste in Sherlock’s mouth.

Lestrade slips off the bed and tidies the table away before helping Sherlock with his covers and IV line. Sherlock feels like he probably should be protesting but he appreciates the well-meaning help of the older man.  It is reminiscent of his childhood when Mycroft would tuck him in at bedtime and then they would read Treasure Island together.  Mycroft quietly leaves the room to retrieve the spare visitor’s chair from John’s room and to collect his laptop that Anthea left at the nurses’ station.  The sounds of the hospital gradually begin to fade to a dull murmur as Sherlock allows his eyelids to droop.

“I enquired at the nurse’s station.”  Mycroft states on his return, his voice soft.  “I’m afraid there’s no real update regarding John but they have confirmed that he underwent a CT scan and is in surgery.”

Sherlock gives a sleepy acknowledgment, grateful for the knowledge but regrettably aware that he lacks the strength to enquire further.  Before long exhaustion pulls him into the depths of sleep.

Lestrade settles into one of the visitor’s chair, pulling his coat over him to serve as a makeshift blanket.  He is used to grabbing a few moments sleep here and there during arduous cases and can now sleep virtually anywhere he chooses.  Within minutes Lestrade is dozing, his chin resting on his chest, body slumped and legs crossed at the ankle as they stretch away from him.

Mycroft utilises the chair he carried in and balances his laptop on his knees.  Seconds later he is tapping away at the keyboard, the sound off and the screen dimmed.  He too is accustomed to long hours, often in highly stressful situations, with minimal sleep, so staying awake now is no hardship to him.  Especially as it enables him to keep a watchful eye on his, often exasperating, brother and the police officer he considers a good friend to them both. 

 

 

A few hours later Mycroft is interrupted in his perusal of a document he rests on his knees by a soft ‘Mr Holmes.’Despite her whispered words Lestrade is awake, and almost instantly alert.

“Yes.”  Mycroft confirms, standing and placing the document on the seat of the chair before moving to meet the nurse at the doorway.  Lestrade remains seated but discretely angles his body towards them, enabling him to follow their conversation closely.

“I thought you'd like to know that Doctor Watson is out of surgery and recovering well.”  She turns to go but halts at the sound of Mycroft softly clearing his throat.

“For what reason did Doctor Watson require surgery?” 

“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that, you’d need to be a member of Doctor Watson’s immediate family.”   She apologises.

“What about a Detective Inspector for the Metropolitan Police who is investigating an attempted murder that is directly linked to what happened to Doctor Watson?”  Lestrade draws out his  wallet and flashes his police ID at her.

“Murder? Oh my …”  One hand flutters to her chest and she is unable to answer straight away.  When she does her professional demeanour is firmly back in place.  “Doctor Watson underwent a CT scan, which revealed the existence of a subdural haematoma ..”

“A blood clot inside his head.”  Mycroft uses the nurse’s pause to explain the unfamiliar terminology to Lestrade, receiving a grateful nod for his efforts.

“Mr Rajkoomar, performed a craniotomy and removed the haematoma.”

“Mr?”  Lestrade queries, his head tilted towards Mycroft.

“A peculiar quirk of the British.  Male surgeons are often referred to as ‘Mr’ regardless of their various qualifications.  Mr Rajkoomar is held in high esteem in the field of neurosurgery, John was in very good hands.”

“And no-one thought to wake me and alert me to the news?”  Sherlock’s sleep heavy voice still manages to convey his irritation clearly.

Mycroft dispatches the nurse with a grateful nod and turns to face a scowling Sherlock.

“The moment you awoke I would have naturally updated you on the situation. You need your sleep so that you can heal effectively, the extra time gained by letting you sleep would be unlikely to be detrimental to the good doctor’s health.”

“I said there was something wrong, that John would never act towards me ..... speak to me the way he did ; but no-one listened!  This could have been addressed much sooner if someone ... anyone had listened to me!”  Gesturing wildly before wincing, his hand moving to hover over his bullet wound, his outburst causing unnecessary strain.

“Sherlock, John presented no cause for concern.”  Mycroft reasons, one hand smoothing his hair, a tell of self-soothing.  “You said yourself that he never lost consciousness, that his speech was normal.  The ambulance crew examined him at the scene and he was then examined again upon admittance to the hospital, nothing suggested that this was on the horizon.”

“I need to see him, Mycroft. I need to see him with my own two eyes.”  Sherlock is already off his bed and grabbing for his dressing gown.  With difficulty he manoeuvres the drip bag through its wide sleeve before hanging the bag back on the drip stand.  He falters in his progress momentarily before Lestrade helps him to slip the dressing gown on properly.

“Sherlock, you don't know what room he is in.”  Mycroft’s hands flutter briefly at his sides, the only indication of his frustration with his brother. 

“I have a scruffy police officer and a fat busy-body at my disposal, I’m sure one of you will be able to help.  If not, one of you can distract her and I’ll simply look up the information for myself.”  Sherlock challenges as he leaves the room, making a beeline for the nurse’s station.  His pace less strident than usual but still cutting an imposing figure nevertheless.

“I’ll ask, she already believes me to be investigating an attempted murder.”  Lestrade intercedes, grabbing his overcoat.  Mycroft quickly gathers his things together, packing them in his briefcase, before catching up with Lestrade and Sherlock.

The same nurse they spoke to previously is at the desk and eyeing them warily, obviously concerned of what may be asked of her next.

“Where is John Watson?” Sherlock demands abruptly making the nurse flinch, all efforts at politeness abandoned, if they were ever employed at all.

“What he means to say is could you tell us what room John Watson is in please?”  Lestrade translates, an easy smile reinforcing his words.

“Of course.  He’s in the South Wing, Ward Seven, Room Six.  It’s Intensive Care but that’s standard procedure after neurosurgery.”  She reassures.  Sherlock merely rolls his eyes and huffs at the continued delay.

“Intensive Care operates a strict two visitors to a patient regime, I’m afraid you won’t all be able to go in.  Mrs Watson will be arriving shortly to visit her husband, I’m sure she’ll appreciate quality time with him.”  

Sherlock’s knuckles turn white from where he grips the drip stand so fiercely, noticing this Lestrade swiftly moves the conversation on.

“That’s fine.  Mr Holmes and I are going to accompany Sherlock to John’s ward, make sure he gets there in one piece.  I’ll let Mary know we’re here and keeping an eye on her too, just in case she should need us.”  Only Lestrade and the Holmes’ brothers understand the implicit threat behind those words.  That he will be watching her every move and if she steps even one inch out of line then Lestrade will be on her like a ton of bricks, with charges of fraud and attempted murder, amongst others, levelled upon her. 

Lestrade, Mycroft and Sherlock walk along the labyrinthine corridors, quiet except for the intermittent squeak of a wheel on Sherlock’s drip stand.  Lestrade would love to make a quip about The Last of The Summer Wine or The Three Amigos but he suspects his sense of humour won’t be appreciated.  The hospital is built like a rabbit warren and its long corridors wind off in various directions, making for a long walk to the Intensive Care Unit.  The group stops from time to time to allow Sherlock to rest; Lestrade notices that Sherlock isn’t as strong as he thinks he is and knows that if Sherlock is left to his own devices he will try to struggle on.  

Taking this into account Lestrade stops at the next vending machine and puts on quite a show of deciding what coffee to have, viciously suppressing a relieved sigh when he sees Sherlock sit down. Sherlock huffs and complains but he remains seated, rubbing a slightly shaking hand over his brow.  Lestrade selects a black coffee for himself, an Earl Grey for Mycroft, and a Camomile Tea for Sherlock.  With drinks in hands they set off once again, the wheel still squeaks and the sound of their footsteps echo along the mostly deserted corridors as they sip their drinks. They walk in strangely companionable silence until Mycroft insists that they need some sustenance, citing that they have no real idea when they are going to get to eat next.  Glancing over at Sherlock Lestrade can see a fine beading of sweat on his brow and upper lip, the reason now apparent for Mycroft’s sudden need for a snack.  With a smothered sigh and a derogatory quip about Mycroft’s expanding waistline, Sherlock sinks gratefully in to the nearest available chair.  Mycroft buys them a twin pack of chocolate digestives each, which they put in their pockets under the pretence of saving them to eat later, before walking the last few hundred metres to Intensive Care.

Mary stands outside John’s room, her anxious hovering more a sign of her reluctance and anger at being back the hospital than being indicative of a worried wife.  Sherlock wonders when it was that Mary ceased to love John, she had loved him in the beginning; the signs were easy to recognise, after all Sherlock has displayed the same signs himself, and over the same man at that.  Her love for John seems to have soured recently, becoming more possessive than romantic in her actions; controlling his actions, reading his private texts and integrating herself into Sherlock’s work.

Mary is swathed in her ever-present red coat, looking larger than life in its unflattering cut and colour.  Sherlock’s own coat has John’s blood on it, dried now to hard, dark patches.  The fact that Mary’s coat remains pristine speaks more about how hands on she had been in helping John after she shot him and it says it more eloquently than anything Sherlock could possibly say.  

Mycroft acknowledges her presence with nothing more than a curt nod before looking away, apparently already bored with her continued existence;  Lestrade manages a tight smile before he too looks away. Mary narrows her eyes at Lestrade’s reaction to her.  In the past he had been friendly, openly approving of her relationship with John and she finds the distinct change momentarily unsettling. That is before she realises that Lestrade has obviously been appraised of precisely how Sherlock and John both came to be hospitalised, and her role in it.

The silence between them is heavy with accusations unsaid, each person aware that now is neither the time nor place for confrontations.  Eyeing the plain white door to John’s room Sherlock heads towards it, uncomfortably aware of a grudging Mary at his heels.  The sound of evenly paced, purposeful footsteps heading in their direction halts their progress.  As one, he and Mary turn to watch the person as he approaches, his walk unhurried; indicative of someone under no time constraints, therefore not a nurse, a surgeon.  John’s surgeon, in fact.

Sherlock closely observes him as he continues his walk.  Tall - approximately six foot, two inches, broad-shouldered and slim - suggestive of regular exercise,  dark skin with the first suggestion of fine wrinkles around his eyes and lips, dark softly waving hair that is threaded through with silver - indicating his age at between forty-seven and fifty-two.  His eyes, when he stops at the group and are close enough to see clearly, are a dark, warm brown.

“Are you the family of Doctor John Watson?”  He queries, his accent is broadly East London but with the warm cadence of somewhere else; Mauritius, Sherlock surmises.

“I’m Mary Watson, John’s wife.”  Mycroft clears his throat in a soft but meaningful manner, prompting Mary to continue.  “This is Sherlock Holmes, John’s ex-flatmate; Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother, I don't really know what he is doing here; and Greg Lestrade, one of John’s friends.” She flaps her hand vaguely at each man as she introduces them, dismissing them as unimportant.

Nodding politely at each person as Mary introduces them the surgeon finally allows his gaze to settle on her.  Her dismissive attitude is jarring but not overly unusual in worried family members.  He decides to privately alert the nurses about the conflict that appears to exist between his patient’s wife and his patient’s friends.

“My name is Mr Rajkoomar.  My specialism is neurosurgery and I operated on your husband earlier.”  He keeps his wording simple, not wishing to overwhelm Mary.  “Mrs Watson, if you would care to follow me we can discuss your husband’s case further.”

He starts to lead the way to a room nearby when the squeak of a rusty wheel alerts them to the presence of another, uninvited, person.

“I’m sorry, Mr Holmes but this is for family only.”  For a moment Mary hesitates.

“Might as well let him listen, he’ll find out somehow anyway.  Couldn’t keep the great Sherlock Holmes from sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong even if we tried.”  Mary remarks bitterly.

Mr Rajkoomar glances between, noting the obvious bad feelings, aware that this level of animosity may affect his patient’s recovery, before continuing on to a private sitting room.

“Don’t bother with the baby-talk, Doc.  I have medical training and this guy is a ‘genius’.” The implication that Mary doesn’t believe Sherlock to be a genius is obvious and she means to belittle him in the eyes of the neurosurgeon.  Sherlock merely ignores her, rolling his eyes, but Mr Rajkoomar brow furrows, concerned by Mary’s scornful words.  He watches as Sherlock and Mary take a seat, unsurprised by how far apart they sit, before discussing John’s case with them.

“The convulsions Doctor Watson experienced were an immediate cause for concern as his notes indicated that he had struck his head when he was shot.  He had shown no symptoms or indications that this would cause anything other than a nasty headache.  Unfortunately the convulsions were indicative of something more serious, the CT scan confirmed this, showing a medium sized subdural haematoma on the left side of his skull.”  He indicates the position on his own head, pausing to ensure that both Mary and Sherlock have understood.

“Doctor Watson underwent a craniotomy, which is when a small temporary flap is made in the skull.  The haematoma is then removed using suction and irrigation and any leaking blood vessels are repaired.  The skull flap is then replaced, luckily the skull heals very rapidly and usually leaves no area of weakness.”  Mary snorts and mutters something about ‘John, being hard-headed as usual.’  Both men deem to ignore this comment. The surgeon presumes it is shock and Sherlock knows it is the lack of compassion that drives Mary’s words.

“Do either of you have any questions?”  

Mary shakes her head and Sherlock is surprised and a little maliciously pleased to see that she is pale and pensive, her hands squeezed protectively between her knees; it’s the most anxious that Sherlock can ever recall seeing her.  Perhaps she believes she may yet be facing time in prison, he muses before deciding it is of no matter to him, he ran out of sympathy for Mary when she hurt John.

“What are the risks associated with the surgery?”  Sherlock queries, his voice calm, almost disinterested, even though his stomach is a roiling mess of nerves and worry.

“It’s a straightforward procedure with minimal risk.” Mr Rajkoomar reassures. “Problems are extremely uncommon but can include further bleeding on the brain, infection of the wound or skull flap, deep vein thrombosis, seizures or stroke.” He pauses, allowing Sherlock time to absorb the information.  “Let me reassure you that Doctor Watson is under the very best of care with twenty four hour nursing and observation by highly skilled individuals.  He is sedated and on a ventilator, this will be the case for the next twenty-four hours.  The purpose of this is to regulate his breathing and ensure his brain is well-supplied with oxygen thus reducing the risk of further possible damage to the brain while it recovers.”

“And his long-term prognosis?”  Sherlock’s voice breaks on the last word, he clears his throat before meeting Mr Rajkoomar’s understanding gaze.

“Will depend very much on the next forty-eight hours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always please feel free to say hi to me on tumblr or Twitter. Maybe pop by my Redbubble shop? (Deelectableart)
> 
> Dee


	3. What if all I have is words?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feeling both emotionally and physically exhausted Sherlock rests his head on his forearms, leaving his hand lightly atop John’s. He allows himself to sleep, secure in the knowledge that John is safe and receiving the care he needs. Sherlock wakes an hour or so later when Lestrade pops in and says a few quiet words to John, before leaving to finally go home. Before Sherlock drifts back to sleep once again Mycroft visits to say he is leaving but that he has stationed undercover agents throughout the hospital and that Mary remains under surveillance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a very short note to say sorry for the huge delay. Life and its associated issues, I'm afraid.
> 
> That being said I hope you enjoy the newest instalment.

“Sherlock?”

The unexpected voice startles Sherlock out of whatever fugue state he has slipped into.  Blinking slowly, he gradually becomes aware that he is once again outside John’s room, the clinical white of the door glaringly bright.  The high tones of a feminine voice assault his ears and it takes him a moment to recognise that it is Mary talking; mere seconds later Sherlock realises that he has been subliminally aware of her less than dulcet tones for some time, concluding that they must have returned to John’s room together.  Try as he might, Sherlock cannot clearly recall their journey back through the labyrinthine corridors of the hospital; only flashes of images and sounds exist; the glare of the overhead lighting; the buzz of the vending machines; the intermittent squeak of the wheel on his drip-stand; and throughout it all, the constant sound of Mary complaining.

“Sherlock?”  The voice comes again.  Sherlock blinks and tries once more to focus on the here and now and the person speaking to him.  Lestrade is looking at him, apparently expecting some form of a response, his dark brown eyes full of concern.  He is standing with his back turned toward Mary, the tension in his body speaks of the deliberateness of this act and of the animosity that he feels for her.  Glancing over Lestrade’s shoulder Sherlock is able to observe his brother pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut; the current unwilling victim of Mary’s sudden desire to talk.

“Hmm?”  Sherlock pulls his attention from Mary briefly.

“Is John going to be OK?”  Lestrade pauses, Sherlock realises he has taken too long to answer when he observes the stricken look on Lestrade’s face. “Christ, it wasn't bad news, was it?”  He clutches at Sherlock’s shoulder, the grip bordering on painful, his distress palpable.

Sherlock shakes his head in an attempt to focus, to dislodge his near-compulsive need to monitor Mary.

“No.”  He attempts to reassure Lestrade.  “The operation went well, it was a success.  They were able to completely remove the haematoma.”

“Then what aren't you telling me, Sherlock?” Lestrade studies Sherlock’s face, looking for any indication as to what Sherlock may be keeping from him.

“Nothing.  Only that they wouldn't give me details of his long-term prospects; just that the next forty-eight hours are vital to his recovery and that he will be heavily sedated for the first twenty-four.” Sherlock tries to keep his voice level, emotionless, but he can do nothing to ease the feeling of despair that clutches at his heart.

“He’s a strong man, Sherlock and a stubborn arse on top of that, he’ll pull through.”  Lestrade reassures, altering his hold on Sherlock’s shoulder to become that of a reassuring pat. Once again Sherlock finds the friendly gesture comforting rather than its usual source of irritation.  “You need to stay strong too.”

Sherlock nods in response and is just opening his mouth to reply when he notices that Mary is staring nervously at John’s door, obviously debating on going in.  An immediate surge of anger and protectiveness washes over him; taking a deep breath before wiping his features clear of emotion, he strides over to Mary, dragging his drip-stand with him.  Lestrade simply sighs before walking over to Mycroft.

 

“Come on then Mary, let’s go and see John.”  Sherlock fixes a broad, overly fake smile on his face and takes her, none too gently, by the arm.

He avoids using the term ‘husband’ as often as he can, substituting it with just John’s name wherever possible, the word and its associated emotions is a source of near physical pain for him.  Sherlock lets go of the drip-stand to push open the door, holding it  for Mary until she walks in, albeit very reluctantly and ‘encouraged’ by his continued grip on her arm.  Only once Mary is in the room does Sherlock let go of her and allow his gaze to fall upon John.  

John looks weaker and more vulnerable than ever, appearing somehow diminished lying unmoving under the crisp hospital sheets.  Sherlock’s heart aches with the need to make everything better, to ease John’s suffering, to solve all of the problems he still has to face. The sheets are neatly folded at John’s chest, allowing his arms to rest over them, his arms are pale and frail looking, a million miles away from their usual golden hue and subtle strength.  Various tubes and machines are connected to John but Sherlock’s attention is solely on the pipe that aids John’s breathing.  It looks almost brutal in the way that it invades his mouth before disappearing down his throat, forcing his jaws apart.  Sherlock reminds himself that all the seemingly overwhelming paraphernalia is to aid John in a rapid and, if luck is finally on his side, full recovery.

Mary edges slowly towards John’s bed and Sherlock has to clench his fists in an effort not to grab her and pull her away, only too aware of the damage she is capable of inflicting.  Bloody trigger happy woman.  Sherlock exhales and unclenches his fists, flexing his fingers before moving quietly closer; once there he remains silent, allowing Mary talk to John if she wishes to.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Mary asks, her voice harsh in the relative quiet of the room.

“Yep.”

“And if I want to talk to John privately?”

“My presence has never stopped you from saying or doing whatever you want to John.  I fail to see the problem.”  Despite his words Sherlock moves to sit in a chair in the corner of the room, believing it to be what John would want.

Mary huffs in annoyance but turns her attention back to John.  She studies him with cold eyes before pressing an impersonal kiss to his hair. It’s an action that is entirely designed to piss Sherlock off, a payback for dragging her into the room, the quick hiss of anger from Sherlock confirming that her action has done precisely that.  Smirking, she turns away and walks towards the door.

“That’s it?  A quick peck and you’re off?”  Sherlock states incredulously, moving to block her exit.

“There’s no point me being here, he's out cold.”  Mary snaps, irritated by Sherlock’s continued interference.  “I’ll come back tomorrow once they take him off that and he’s awake.”  She gestures towards all the machines that are monitoring and aiding John’s recovery.

“You are his wife.”  Sherlock asserts, the contempt he feels for her colouring his voice.

“Yes, I’m aware.”  She smiles coldly.  “And right now I’m leaving.  He has no idea I am here.  I don't believe he is aware of anything beyond the inside of his eyelids; so I'm going home and putting my feet up.”  She rests a hand on her belly, the significance of the gesture does not go unrecognised by Sherlock.  “I need my rest.”

Sherlock just stares at her, amazed and disappointed once again at Mary’s continued ability to always put herself first, pregnant or otherwise, whatever the situation.

“Just because I don't wear my heart on my sleeve, like some people I could mention, it doesn't mean I don't have one.” 

Before Sherlock is able to reply ‘even if it is cold,’ Mary has side-stepped him and left the room, leaving Sherlock alone with John for the first time since John was shot.

 

With care he manoeuvres the chair over to John’s bedside, his drip-stand making the effort more difficult than it needs to be.  For a few minutes Sherlock just sits and observes, eyes intent, observing each machine and its function, noting each read out.  Once satisfied he finally he leans on to the edge of John’s bed, taking care not to jostle him.

“John.  It’s Sherlock.”  He starts hesitantly, unsure what to say before deciding to tell John what has happened to him, believing that he will appreciate the knowledge.  “You had a haematoma on the left side of your brain, it caused you to suffer a series of convulsions.  They believe it be a result of the head injury you received.”  He avoids implicating Mary, not wishing to influence John’s opinion of her, that will be a conversation for another time.  “Mr Rajkoomar performed a craniotomy on you, the procedure was successful and you're in recovery now.  You’ll have a couple of new scars, of course; one on your right arm from your earlier injury; one on the left side of your head from this.  Your hair will cover it, especially if you grow it a bit longer.  The one on your arm will be partially covered by your t-shirt sleeves, totally covered by those bloody jumpers you insist on wearing.” 

He bites his lip, shooting a wary look at the door before continuing.  “I wish you weren't so self-conscious about your scars but I do understand why you want to keep what you see as reminders of your failures hidden.”  Sherlock pauses, fidgeting in his chair, unconsciously rubbing his back against it.  “But you didn't fail, John.  You didn't fail during your time in the army and you didn't fail me.  You could never fail me.”

Sherlock dares to reach out and rest his hand over John’s, his own hand trembling slightly.  John’s hand remains still but his skin is soft and warm and Sherlock takes solace in that fact.  

“I know you can hear me, John, but I don't know how much of this you will remember.  My life changed for the better the moment you limped in to it.  In less than twenty-four hours you seamlessly became part of my work, part of my life; my home.  There’s something I’ve meant to say always and then I never have….  Part of me desperately wants to say it now, just to know that I’ve said it to you, but I know that would be selfish of me.  Just know I will always be here for you.  Always.”

Feeling both emotionally and physically exhausted Sherlock rests his head on his forearms, leaving his hand lightly atop John’s.  He allows himself to sleep, secure in the knowledge that John is safe and receiving the care he needs.  Sherlock wakes an hour or so later when Lestrade pops in and says a few quiet words to John, before leaving to finally go home.  Before Sherlock drifts back to sleep once again Mycroft visits to say he is leaving but that he has stationed undercover agents throughout the hospital and that Mary remains under surveillance.

 

Sherlock sleeps for a couple of hours more before awakening to the sound of a nurse speaking quietly to John, informing him of her actions as she performs them.  John is still sedated and Sherlock appreciates the professionalism and respect the nurse shows for her sleeping patient.  He uses her presence to excuse himself and make use of the small toilet facilities that are opposite John’s room. The mirror shows a more haggard reflection than Sherlock has seen since his return; the effect of his own injury, his confrontation with Mary and John’s hospitalisation.  Splashing cold water on his face and running his damp fingers through his hair he tries to tame his unruly curls.  He smoothes his hands over his pyjamas, trying to rid them of the worst of the creases, wincing when his drip-feed snags.  He thanks a deity he does not believe in that in a day or two he will be off the bloody thing and able to regain some freedom of movement.  Not that he's planning on going anywhere, not until John is back on his feet.  Risking a final glance in the mirror he observes that no amount of cold water is going to hide the worry and strain he feels. He gives his reflection in the mirror a brief nod before turning away.

Sherlock returns to John’s room just as the nurse is exiting, she acknowledges him with a smile and leaves him alone, once more, with John. This time Sherlock shows no hesitancy, knowing exactly what he wishes to say and he spends the next few hours talking to John about their adventures, admitting, somewhat sheepishly, that he likes seeing himself through John’s eyes.  Sherlock informs him that they still have a few James Bond films to watch, hinting that they should have another Bond marathon while they both recuperate.  He teases John about his love of cat videos on YouTube and his long baths; privately admitting that he likes this softer side of John as much as he likes the thrill-seeking side.  Sherlock lapses into silence, the abrupt realisation that John won’t be bumbling about their flat hitting him hard. Recognising that he is lapsing into a maudlin state Sherlock forces himself to recall, and laugh about, the ridiculous outfits they've worn over the course of their investigations; lamenting the lack of opportunity for either dressing as a pirate or having the opportunity to dance.  This time when he lapses into silence it’s with a more content heart, he may not have John with him but he has his memories.

 

A gentle tap at the door, followed by a soft ‘woo-hoo’ welcomes the arrival of Mrs. Hudson.

“I thought I’d find you in here, love.” She coos, leaning over to press a motherly kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and he smiles up at her in response.  “How’s John doing?  Your brother told me about his operation, the poor boy.”

“He’s on medication to keep him asleep for now but the read out from the machines indicate he is doing well.  We’ll know more tomorrow.”  

“And how about you?”  She queries, gratefully accepting the chair that Sherlock offers her.  “Are you allowing yourself time to heal?”

Sherlock gives an eloquent shrug in reply, looking down at his hands when she frowns at him for too long.  She turns her concern on John, fussing with his sheets, allowing Sherlock time to formulate an answer.

“I’ve slept in the chair.  I’m connected to my medication.  The loo is across the way.  Anything else can wait.”

“What about food and drink, Sherlock?”

“Eating slows me down.”  Sherlock contends, his gaze once again on John’s sleeping face.

“Nonsense.  You stay right there, young man,  I’m going to sort you out some food.  And you are going to eat it, even if I have to spoon feed you.”

Sherlock smiles at what a force to be reckoned with Mrs. Hudson is; even after all their years of friendship she still continues to surprise him with her extraordinary capacity to love.  She bustles back in a few minutes later, a smile of accomplishment gracing her features.  She settles back in to her seat, taking time to smooth her skirt over her knees, before starting to speak.

“I’ve spoken with the nurses and they've agreed to arrange for you to have meals nearby, obviously you can’t eat in here but they've said you can use their break room.”  Anticipating Sherlock’s protests she flaps her hand at him.  “You’ll be able to see John’s room quite clearly from there, don't worry. They do insist that you return to your room overnight so that your own recovery isn't delayed.  Mycroft’s lot will still be about and I’m sure they will alert you should anything untoward happen.”

Wisely, Sherlock acquiesces to Mrs. Hudson, silently acknowledging that although he may return to his room when required he has absolutely no intention of staying there.  His place is by John’s side and he can heal just as effectively in this part of the hospital as in the other.

Mrs. Hudson fills the time with small-talk about the various going-ons in Baker Street, including the latest gossip concerning Mrs. Turner’s married ones, their constant arguments over whether to start a family and Mrs Turner’s concerns about having a small child in the building.

“I really can’t understand her problem though, Sherlock, it would be lovely to have a child about the old house.”  She looks affectionately at John, patting his hand. “I hope you and Mary will visit with your little one often, John.”

Sherlock suddenly finds it hard to breathe, the lump in his throat and pain in his chest battling for dominance. With difficulty he clears his throat and makes a feeble excuse to leave the room, not willing to let Mrs. Hudson see the pain her words have caused.  When he receives a few too many curious glances in the corridor he takes refuge in the small bathroom but avoids the sight of his reflection.  He tries to think about her words in a logical manner, attempting to identify the main cause of his distress.  

Sherlock closes his eyes and visualises their rooms at Baker Street, a little tidier, a little cleaner but with the obvious presence of a child.  Toys are on the floor, children’s books rest in unruly piles throughout the room, wires and sharp edges are hidden away or covered over,  the sound of a violin playing a lullaby echoes softly around the room.  So far, so good; the idea of child in the flat brings Sherlock no distress, in fact he feels a sense of warmth and home; of rightness.

Next he envisages what a child of John’s - and Mary, although he barely lets that thought register - may look like. He struggles to picture a newborn but is able to clearly envisage a baby right on the cusp of toddlerhood. A child with blonde hair that is showing a suggestion of curls, dark blue eyes so much like their father’s and a snub nose that wrinkles up when they giggle. For some reason the only child he can form a picture of is female; a little girl with wayward hair, sparkling eyes and a ready smile, chubby hands reaching out for balance as she pulls herself upright using his chair for leverage and support. 

Again, he feels no horror at the idea of her existence or at her presence.  Sherlock now forces himself to imagine Mary and John, the happy, doting parents, in his home and once again a feeling of great unhappiness floods him.  Instantly the image of Mary is removed and only John remains, his baby daughter laughing in his arms; this time a flood of love washes over Sherlock. Love for John.  Love for John’s child.

His mouth drops open in shock; the fact that he loves John is not news to him but the fact that he wants to be part of a family, to play the role of a father, _is_.  Taking a few calming breaths, Sherlock allows himself a few more moments to dwell on his imaginings before shaking them off as the unobtainable dream they are.  He risks a quick glance at the mirror, noting that he looks pale and a little shaken but no more than can be easily written off as pain-related.

His return to the room is greeted with a warm smile from Mrs. Hudson and the strangely reassuring beeps and buzzes of John’s machines.

“Everything alright, dear?” Sherlock gives a brief nod before looking back at the bed.  John is lying right where he left him, of course, but the colour is starting to return his skin and the sight of it removes some of the heavy weight Sherlock has been carrying. 

“The nurse popped in a moment ago, wanted me to let you know you're dinner is in the nurses’ break room.”  Sensing Sherlock’s hesitation she flaps her hand at him.  “Go on, I’ve just been telling John about some of the mischief you used to get into before he came along,  I’ve still got loads more stories to share.”

Sherlock correctly translates that as ‘go and eat, I’ll be here,’ and thanks her before walking to the break room.  His meal has been placed on the small table but despite the careful arrangement it still manages to look unappealing to Sherlock’s fussy palate.  He takes a seat on the squashy fake-leather chairs and observes the room around him.  Informative posters adorn the pin-boards; many notifying about medical procedures, updates and training courses.  Others are of a more light-hearted manner; advertising shops and services, charity events and social outings.  One pin-board is dedicated to thank-you cards, the garish pink flowery genericness of them causing Sherlock to grimace in distaste.    He picks at his meal, pushing the food around his plate, randomly nibbling at bits until he feels he has eaten enough to satisfy even Mrs. Hudson.  Carrying his bottle of water he returns to John’s room, slipping in quietly so as not to disturb Mrs. Hudson’s story.

“And then he goes and walks around Wimbledon Common in a thunder-storm dressed as a Womble!”  She laughs, patting John’s arm gently.  “Oh honestly John, I wish you could have seen him, you’d have laughed for weeks!”

Sherlock’s lips quirk into a smile before warping into a grimace.  The case had been thrilling but the six hours he had spent wandering around in the torrential rain in a smelly, increasingly heavy, costume had rather taken away some of the fun.  He’d binned the costume but he could still smell the scent of wet fake fur on him even after he'd taken a long shower.

“Not one of my finest hours, Mrs. Hudson, but I did get the case solved.”  Sherlock gently interrupts Mrs. Hudson’s laughter, leaning some of his weight lightly against John’s bed.

“That you did, love.  How was your dinner?”

“Tolerable.”  Sherlock looks down at John’s still form, his face softening. “How’s he doing?” Logically Sherlock knows that nothing will have changed in the ten minutes he took to eat his food, but emotionally? Emotionally Sherlock feels the need to know about every minuscule change that indicates that John is on the mend.

“He’s doing well, Sherlock dear.  He’s comfortable, none of his machines have made any funny noises and he has people who love him looking out for him.” Mrs. Hudson reassures.

Sherlock nods; people who love him, but people that he loves? John had admitted that he loved Sherlock when he'd asked him to be Best Man, (the question and the sentiment creating an emotional short-circuit in Sherlock’s brain) but that was the love of a ‘best’ friend or a brother-in-arms, not romantic or familial love.  Sherlock knows that John is very fond of Mrs. Hudson too, but again, that is the love of a dear friend.  

But what of familial love? He knows that Mycroft had tried to contact John’s sister, Harry, as soon as John was hurt but was unable to reach her.  He suspects that Mycroft still has people trying to locate and insist, none too gently, that she comes to see her brother.  John doesn't often show it but Sherlock knows that John loves his sister dearly, blaming himself for her drinking.

And what of romantic love? In particular, the kind you give to the person you plan to spend the rest of your life with.  The parent of your unborn child.  Mary had visited but Sherlock suspects that was only because she was there when John got hurt. But has she been the loving wife since? Has she stayed by John’s side? Held his hand? Pressed worried kisses to his brow?  No.  At the very first opportunity she had buggered off home, expressing no regret, no concern.  Sherlock has no real knowledge of being on the receiving end of romantic love but if that is what it is like then he is glad for that fact.

Mrs. Hudson starts to gather her stuff, putting her coat back on and rifling through her handbag, making sure she has everything in readiness to leave.

“I’m going to head home now, Sherlock.  Mrs. Turner does tend to worry if I’ve not popped in for a tipple and I promised her I’d get the bus home before it got too late.  I’ll pop in and tell her about John, she’s been asking after him.”  She brushes a delicate kiss on John’s forehead. “John, love?  I’m off now but I’ll be back tomorrow.  Mrs. Turner sends her love and the boys at Speedy’s wish you a ‘Speedy’ recovery.”

Moving to Sherlock she carefully wraps her arms around him, mindful of his drip and his injury, before stretching up to press a kiss to his offered cheek.

“You look after yourself too, young man.  I don't want to lose either of my boys.”

Sherlock offers to pay for a cab but she refuses him, stating that she has her bus-pass and that she always meets such nice people on the bus.  He’s reluctant to see her go home on her own but knows better than to interfere with her independence.

In the quiet afterwards Sherlock simply sits and holds John’s hand, his thumb rubbing reassuring circles on John’s skin.  Sherlock is exhausted now, his eyes scratchy and his ears ringing in the quiet of the room; the only sounds are the quiet whirs and beeps of John’s machines and they lull Sherlock to the brink of sleep, his eyelids drooping.

 

The door clicks open and Sherlock ignores it, after-all the nurses have been in and out all day, but the soft clearing of a throat alerts him to the fact that this is someone different, with a different purpose.  

“Mr Holmes.  Time to return to your room.”  Sherlock tilts his head, eyes shut; male, slight Welsh lilt on his vowels, mid-thirties.  

“Can’t you say anything original?”  Opening his eyes he can see the nurse from the previous day waiting just inside the door with a wheelchair.  Was it the previous day? Sherlock muses, the days are all blending into one.

“I can; and I know you won’t risk repetition by arguing with me about it.”  He gestures to the wheelchair.  “This will make the journey back more comfortable.”

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock studies the man more closely, realising that this is a member of the staff that won't back down from him; the novelty of the occurrence engaging Sherlock’s interest.

“Name?”

“Gethin.”  He watches as Sherlock walks towards him, steadying the wheelchair as he sits down.  “I’ve been assigned to you, bit unusual that, but I suspect your ‘I’m the British Government’ relative had something to do with that.”

“Most likely.  He does so love to stick his overly large nose in.”

“Brother?”  Gethin inquires.  Sherlock nods.  “Thought so.”

Their journey back to Sherlock’s room is punctuated only by the occasional shrill squeak of the wheel on his drip-stand as it is dragged along beside them.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. What if a dream is a story waiting to be told?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The darkness is broken by the flare of electric lights but he is hidden behind their reach. John remains in the wheelchair as instructed and allows the shadows to encase him further. Anger and fear course through his veins; fear at what he suspects he is about to hear, anger that he had been too blind to see it earlier. All topped off with an unhealthy dose of anger at Sherlock; anger that he left; anger that he'd returned…Returned too late…. A conversation takes place at the other end of the hallway and John is so consumed by anger at what he hears that he almost reacts too late when the gun is levelled at him. He lurches abruptly to the side, causing the wheelchair to tip, he registers searing pain in his left arm even as he strikes his head against the brick wall. Blackness overwhelms him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short note today. The text in italic represents John dreaming. Enjoy Xx

As the sound of the man’s comforting, yet oddly garbled, voice fades John drifts and he dreams….

_Initially he experiences only snippets of things.  A pair of bright eyes, filled with intelligence and the colours of the cosmos.  The haunting sound of a violin being played.  The quick flash of high cheekbones and a dark coat collar.  The intriguing scent that can only be a mix of chemicals and cologne.  The taste of a home-cooked meal on his tastebuds and the sound of an elusive, but oddly familiar, baritone._

_The dream deepens and expands.  Misty greyness blurs his vision, rain falls cold upon his skin.  His heart pounds in his chest, his arm outstretched…. his phone falls, forgotten, from numb fingers.  A tall building looms in the greyness, its lines stark.  High on the roof a man stands, his long coat flapping in the wind and the rain.  The perspective of the dream alters and John finds himself on the rooftop standing alongside the man.  This close he can see that the man’s cheeks are wet from more than just the rain; can clearly hear the heartbreak in his voice as he speaks into his phone._

_“Goodbye John.”_

_This time …….. there were other times, John instinctively knows……. this time John reaches out and wraps his arms around the other man… his friend?  More than that? …. and prevents him from jumping._  

Sherlock sits huddled up on the visitors chair next to John’s bed, wrapped in a thin hospital blanket, observing John’s face.  It appears he’d underestimated his nurse, Gethin, Sherlock had calculated that he would have at least an hour before his disappearance from his own ward was noticed; it had taken less than thirty minutes for Gethin to find him.

“I’m not leaving John on his own.”  Sherlock keeps his eyes on John.

“Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson is not on his own.  The medical team monitor his progress at all times.”

“Don’t be an idiot!” Sherlock snarls as he looks up at Gethin, eyes flashing.  “If it was you lying there wouldn't you want someone with you?  Someone who cares for more than just your medical needs?”

Sherlock studies Gethin with narrowed eyes, noting the moment that Gethin admits defeat.

“Precisely.  Now sod off and leave me in peace.”  Tiredness and worry make Sherlock’s limited patience vanish even more quickly than usual.

“Mr Holmes,  I understand what you are saying but I am employed to ensure that you rest and recuperate.”  Gethin stands his ground, even though he would like nothing more than to see these two broken men spending time together.

“Then use that brain that you must have hidden in that head somewhere and find a way where I can both recuperate and stay with John.  You and I both know that if I am forced back to ‘my’ room I will simply find my way back here.”  Although he is speaking to Gethin his focus is back on John, and in particular on the way his eyes are moving behind his eyelids, indicative of dreaming.

_The drifting, swirling cloud of indistinct colours gradually forms into a haze of oranges, reds and yellows.  The comforting feeling of content John had been feeling abruptly changes to one of high alert.  He is aware that something is dangerously wrong.  Fire!  The smoke burns his eyes, searing the inside of his nostrils, singeing his hair.  Panic floods through him but try as he might he can not escape the dream.  He is encased within the fire, at risk of becoming part of it.  One moment he is trapped inside a bonfire, children shouting around him; the next he is confined within a large country house, fire licking at the ceiling; finally he is being blown out of the window of the flat in Baker Street as the room explodes behind him, destroying everything in its path.  He gasps for breath, his throat painful and the air hot and full of ash._

Sherlock watches as the movements of John’s eyes race behind his eyelids, noticing with increasing concern the way that a fine sheen of sweat is beginning to form on John’s skin.  One of the machine displays begins to flash before it emits a high piercing alarm. 

“Nurse!”  Sherlock leaps from his chair, swearing loudly when the morphine feed is ripped from him.  Heedless of his injury Sherlock wrenches open the room door, his heart pounding in alarm.  “Nurse!”

“Step aside, Mr Holmes.”  He is directed, kindly but firmly, by a nurse who is just about to enter the room.

She goes quickly to John’s side, efficiently checking the insertion and wound sites before turning to examine the machines and drip feeds.  She nods to herself before manually taking John’s temperature.

Sherlock stops her as she starts to leave the room, surprised when she takes the time to reassure him.

“It’s nothing to worry about Mr Holmes.  He’s running a slight temperature so I’m going to increase the amount of antibiotics he is on.”

Sherlock enters the room fully and slumps back in the chair, his eyes restlessly tracing John’s features.  He is still in this position when the nurse returns, a new drip bag in her hand.  She makes short work of switching the bags and adjusting the feed before leaving the room once more.  She returns carrying what is needed to re-insert his morphine feed.  He watches quietly as she quickly and competently works, grateful for her rapid response to John and her capable handling of him.

Sherlock pays close attention to John, his medications and the machine displays, before finally dropping into an exhausted sleep an hour later.

_The dream swirls and blurs before clarifying into the image of a small boy, his hair a mass of dark curls that bounce as he runs, playing make-believe at being a pirate, as John looks on the boy grows and ages; a teenager with lank, tangled hair, he is curled in the foetal position on a filthy bare mattress, whimpering and shivering, a man a handful of years older sits in despair next to him, a piece of paper clutched in his hand, again the image changes; the teenager is now a man in his early thirties, his eyes bright and intelligent, his hair a mass of carefully styled curls.  He’s runs down the street, his long coat swirling out behind him, his heart filled with joy.  Once more the image changes; John instinctively knows that the man is a little older but finds it hard to focus for long on his face, even as it sears itself into his brain.  The man lays broken on the ground, his unblinking eyes a shocking shade of aquamarine, his alabaster skin streaked with bright red blood, blood that mats his hair and pools on the ground._

_The dream shimmers and after some time clears to show the same man again… Sherlock, John’s mind finally supplies… Sherlock is miraculously alive and getting dressed into a morning suit, readying for battle, a deep sadness in his heart; a smaller amount  of time passes and Sherlock stands once more in his dramatic coat, his hair buffeted by the wind from the propellors of a helicopter, search lights bleach his pale skin further and make his eyes flash.  He levels a gun at a tall, bespectacled man, anger clear on Sherlock’s face; John feels a surge of fear and fury as he hears the sharp retort of the gun and the man falls dead at their feet;  the image alters one last time;  Sherlock-the man once again becomes Sherlock-the boy, he drops to his knees and remains there, with his hands behind his head, tears streaming down his cheeks.  John’s heart breaks to see his friend so alone and vulnerable but he finds he is unable to move from where he stands to offer comfort._  

The dream has barely faded before John is plunged into the next dream, each sense on high alert.

_John’s knuckles are ripped to shreds, bruised and bloody.  Blood that belongs to both he and Sherlock.  John looks at his shoes and he can see the way that the blood splatter glistens on them.  His breath comes in heavy gasps, both anger and grief claw at his chest.  He looks down to where Sherlock has collapsed at his feet, curled into a defensive ball, his face as bruised and bloody as John’s knuckles ……. Because of John’s knuckles._

The dream fades and for a moment there is only darkness. 

_The darkness is broken by the flare of electric lights but he is hidden behind their reach.  John remains in the wheelchair as instructed and allows the shadows to encase him further.  Anger and fear course through his veins; fear at what he suspects he is about to hear, anger that he had been too blind to see it earlier.  All topped off with an unhealthy dose of anger at Sherlock; anger that he left; anger that he'd returned…Returned too late….  A conversation takes place at the other end of the hallway and John is so consumed by anger at what he hears that he almost reacts too late when the gun is levelled at him.  He lurches abruptly to the side, causing the wheelchair to tip, he registers searing pain in his left arm even as he strikes his head against the brick wall.  Blackness overwhelms him._

Sherlock wakes, a quick glance at the clock informs him that it is early morning.  He stretches, mindful of his morphine feed and of his own still healing injuries.  He casts a discerning eye over John, breathing out a sigh of relief when he observes no signs of John’s fever and that he looks to be in a more restful sleep.

For a while Sherlock looks on as John sleeps, eventually he begins to talk again.  He chats about everything and nothing; Sherlock has never been good at small talk but for John he is prepared to make the effort.

_An evening at home, the rays of the setting sun painting the room in pastel shades of peach and pink.  Dust motes dance in and out of the beams of light, accompanying the soft sounds of murmured conversation.  Two men sit on the sofa, speaking in easy whispers; their body language that of intimacy, pressed together from shoulder to knee, their hands linked and resting on the lap of one of them.  There they sit, the tall, slim man with the dark curly hair and the shorter, blond man with the army bearing, hand in hand, happy in their seclusion.  As the last of the evening light fades from the room the blond man rests his head on the other man’s shoulder, his heart full and content._

An hour passes before Sherlock is called to the staffroom for his breakfast.  He enters the room and is unsurprised to find Gethin, his Mycroft allocated nurse, awaiting him.

“Mr Holmes,  I have a compromise, of sorts, for you.  It is insisted upon that you return to your own room at nights whilst Doctor Watson is in Intensive Care.”  He raises his hand, a mute appeal to allow him to continue, anticipating Sherlock’s need to interrupt.  “No-one will check to make sure you are where you are supposed to be.  I will come to wherever you are to address your medical needs but I am not your babysitter.”

Sherlock dips his head in agreement, his eyes fixed on yet another unappealing hospital meal. 

“And when John is no longer in Intensive Care?”

“Then Doctor Watson will be awake and aware of the situation.  At that time, if he agrees, we can allocate you a shared room.  This will operate initially as a High Dependancy Unit until Doctor Watson no longer requires that level of care.  After that it will operate as a regular hospital ward.”

Sherlock muses over the suggestions as he eats a few mouthfuls of the bland cornflakes, before pushing the tray away and grabbing a banana.

“And who do I have to thank for this preferential treatment?”  He peels and eats the banana, feigning extreme disinterest.

“Officially, it’s the hospital showing their appreciation for the work that you and Doctor Watson perform.”

“And unofficially?” Now Sherlock looks up, meeting a smiling Gethin’s eye.

“Unofficially, I very strongly suspect your brother’s involvement.”  He pauses, cocking his head to one side, his gaze shrewd.  “Not an interference I believe you will complain about.”

“Oh, you’re good.”  Sherlock states, surprising himself with a chuckle.  “You’ve missed your calling.”

“No.  Never appealed to me, all that snooping around and making deductions from the pattern of a footprint or the way the sun has faded the wallpaper in a certain way.  I’ll leave that to you and Doctor Watson, I’ll stick with my form of fixing people, Mr Holmes.”

“Well, if you ever change your mind…”  Sherlock muses.

“Thanks, but no thanks.”  Gethin reaches for the small case of medical supplies he had brought with him and moves to sit next to Sherlock.  “Now, if you don't mind, Mr Holmes, I need to change your dressing.”

“Sherlock, please.”

“Ok.  I’m going to unbutton your shirt now, Sherlock, I’ll then remove the dressing from over your wound.  I’ll palpate the area to check for swellings or signs of infection, this might be quite uncomfortable but should not cause any severe pain.  After this is done I will redress the area.”

Fifteen minutes later a newly re-dressed Sherlock walks back towards John’s room, halting mid-step at the sight of Mary and Mycroft awaiting him.  He takes a few calming breaths before hitching on an obviously fake smile and moving to meet them.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise.”  His smile now more of a grimace.

“Is it?” Mary snaps, she looks supremely pissed off at being back at the hospital and Sherlock notes with amusement the small smirk of satisfaction on his brother’s face.

“Not particularly, no.”  Sherlock responds dryly, trying to ignore the small spark of brotherly love he feels for Mycroft and his pettiness towards Mary.

“Your brother practically dragged me out of bed this morning and insisted that I be here for when they took John off the sedation medication.”

For the first time Sherlock notices that the door to John’s room is ajar and a member of staff is altering the settings on many of the machines.

“You and Mary go in, Sherlock, I’ll wait out here.”

They enter John’s room, remaining quiet until the nurse leaves.

“John?  Mary is here.”  Sherlock lets Mary take the chair but he lingers at John’s bedside.  Long minutes pass in silence,  Mary using the time to glance unseeingly around the room.

“Have you nothing to say?”  Sherlock asks impatiently.

“No, not really.”  Mary continues with her bored perusal of the room.

“Your husband could be on the cusp of regaining consciousness, have you no words of encouragement, of comfort, for him?”  Sherlock questions, struggling to keep the anger from his voice.

“He will wake, when he wakes.”  Mary shrugs.  “No words from me will alter that fact.”

_John’s heart breaks over opportunities missed and opportunities lost but he refuses to let the threatened tears fall.  It is when John’s voice breaks as he tries to talk that Sherlock hesitantly approaches,  his face still bearing the marks of recent violence.  Slowly Sherlock reaches for John, with care he places his hand on John’s upper arm, keeping his touch light; when John does not flinch or back away Sherlock rests his other hand on John’s shoulder.  For a single moment John tenses but then he allows himself to take the comfort that is being offered, however awkwardly.  Sherlock draws him in and now the tears fall, unheeded, wetting the material of Sherlock’s expensive clothing, and yet still Sherlock continues to hold him close._

“Sherlock, just stop talking now.  Nothing you have said, or will say, can compel me to stay here a moment longer.”  Mary’s voice is tight with frustration.

“He is your husband.  He loves you, you supposedly love him, you must be here when he awakes.”  Sherlock insists.

“I ‘must’ nothing, Sherlock Holmes.  I control when I go and when I stay, not you.”

“What about Mycroft?”  Sherlock taunts, unable to resist.

Mary glares at Sherlock before striding from the room, ignoring Mycroft completely.

_A church is lit by the sun of early summer, petals fall across the pathway and grass, landing on wedding guests and gravestones alike.  It is a beautiful day and John knows it should be the happiest one of his life, but something is wrong, something is lacking.  His eyes skim over the assembled guests, finally settling on Sherlock.  John’s world rights itself and he starts to smile but within seconds the smile dies on his lips as he realises that Sherlock is deep in conversation with the most attractive and intelligent of the bridesmaids.  John watches jealously as she gleefully flirts with Sherlock.  John turns to his wife, eager for her to tell him that he is imagining things but beside him stands a stranger.  Gone are the kind eyes, the soft smile and the yielding body; before him stands someone completely unknown to him who, by some strange twist of fate, has the same approximate build and colouring of his new wife.  This stranger … this interloper… now glares at him with cold, hard eyes, her lips pressed into a thin line.  Her soft and warm body now stands as cold and still as a marble statue before him.  Only her head moves, snakelike, on her once kissable neck and John suddenly fears for his life and for the lives of all those that he loves.  He tries to jerk away from her sudden grip on his arm, desperate to reach Sherlock.  Even as he struggles his world, once again, goes dark._

“John? It’s been over twenty-four hours since the doctors reduced your medication.  Everyone has been here to see you; Mary, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson, some of your friends from the pub, and your sister.  I’ve been here the whole time.”  Sherlock holds John’s hand tenderly between his own, worry sits heavy both on his brow and in his heart.

“The doctors had expected you to have woken up by now; you were displaying all the expected signs. You’re breathing on your own now, completely unaided.  The swelling in your head has receded and you show no signs of fever.  You should be awake now”

He drops his forehead down on to their joined hands.  “I’m sorry.  I should never have taken you with me to Mary.  I thought you'd be safe and I wrong.  I put you in the line of danger and I’m sorry.”

_A picnic blanket lies on a sandy patch of beach, the sound of the sea a pleasant accompaniment to a child’s joyous laughter.  John luxuriates in the unexpected warmth of a summer’s evening, looking on as Sherlock and their daughter explore a rock-pool.  She stands up to her dimpled knees in the warm water leaning over to see what her father is showing her before looking up at him, the love she feels clear for all to see. Her father's love is no less hidden.  It is there in every soft word and movement; in the way he watches her as she sits in the water to be closer to the creatures she can see; it is there in the way that he tries to be home for her bedtime, every night, so that he can play his violin for her; in the way that he shares his microscope with her; in the way that he holds her hand and smoothes her hair when she is scared._

_Every time John thinks he has fallen as far in love with Sherlock as is possible, he realises he has fallen just a little bit more.  With a sigh he allows his eyes to close, secure in the knowledge that Sherlock’s love for him is equally deep and strong._

_“John?  John?”  John smiles at the sound of his husband’s voice but doesn't open his eyes._

“John?” Sherlock’s voice is more urgent now.  “John? I need you to wake up.  Please John, wake up.  Wake up for me.”


	5. What if it all starts and ends with tears?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock feels as if he has been asking John to wake up for days. Weeks. But he knows, in that factual part of his mind that never seems to take time off, that it has been little more than twelve hours. Twelve hours full of asking, of begging, of ordering John to wake up. Sherlock distantly acknowledges the tears that threaten to fall, making his eyes prickle, his sight swim. His speech is heavy, his words broken, a reflection of his turmoil. He has no pride left now, he would willingly fall to his knees and beg if that will bring John back to him.
> 
> “You weren't meant to get hurt,” Sherlock’s voice cracks on the final word, taking a deep breath, he ignores the pain in his chest, determined to speak, to explain. “I know you believe I am less than human, a machine; but I’m not, not where you are involved.” Tears start to stream down his cheeks, unchecked, his attention solely on John.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice is strained, his throat dry and scratchy, but he pays it no heed. Panic is starting to claw at his chest, shallowing his breath and aggravating his wound, still he refuses to allow his attention to be on anything other than John. John. His John. John who should have woken up by now. John who should be awake and aware. John who should be telling Sherlock to shut up, to go away; or nagging him to eat and get some rest. Instead John continues to sleep on - like some bloody fairytale princess, Sherlock thinks bitterly. Sherlock doesn't want a princess, or a prince; a short-tempered, short-statured, sarcastic, big-hearted ex-army doctor suits him much better, leave the fairytale royalty for those that have need of it.

Sherlock feels as if he has been asking John to wake up for days. Weeks. But he knows, in that factual part of his mind that never seems to take time off, that it has been little more than twelve hours. Twelve hours full of asking, of begging, of ordering John to wake up. Sherlock distantly acknowledges the tears that threaten to fall, making his eyes prickle, his sight swim. His speech is heavy, his words broken, a reflection of his turmoil. He has no pride left now, he would willingly fall to his knees and beg if that will bring John back to him.

“You weren't meant to get hurt,” Sherlock’s voice cracks on the final word, taking a deep breath, he ignores the pain in his chest, determined to speak, to explain. “I know you believe I am less than human, a machine; but I’m not, not where you are involved.” Tears start to stream down his cheeks, unchecked, his attention solely on John.

A slight, almost imperceptible, difference in the set of John’s lips sets his heart racing.

“John?” Sherlock leans closer, his gaze fixed upon John’s mouth. At first he believes it is just the play of light over John’s pale skin but, with bated breath, he continues to observe. John lips move again, the difference is minuscule but enough to convince Sherlock that John is trying to wake up.

“John?” Sherlock calls urgently, his grip on John’s hand remains light despite Sherlock’s growing excitement. “I need you to wake up. Please John, wake up.” Sherlock’s focus remains intent on John’s face, eagerly chasing signs of emerging consciousness. “Wake up for me.”

Sherlock barely registers the gasp that escapes him, he is too lost in the sight of John’s lips forming something akin to the start of a smile. A whispered, ‘John’ escapes him seconds later when John twitches his hand, moving slowly to return Sherlock’s hold. His grip is weak but to Sherlock it registers as the best thing he has ever felt. His eyes flash down to where their hands are joined, his tears now tears of joy. His gaze sweeps back up to John’s face, eagerly searching.

A few, drawn out, minutes later and John’s eyes drift open; navy-blue eyes meet silver-blue and the suggestion of a smile blooms into a real one. For Sherlock, time stands still.

“Hi,” John croaks, his voice is weak but it is divine music to Sherlock’s ears after so long an absence. John’s smile falters as he gives his surroundings a curious glance, broadening once more when his eyes fall again on Sherlock.

“Hi,” It’s an inane answer but Sherlock finds it is all he can manage, that annoyingly reasonable part of his brain calling him an idiot, even as his lips curl into an answering smile.

John opens his mouth to speak but it is obvious he is struggling to vocalise, eventually forcing out a cryptic, “Waves?”

Confused, Sherlock raises his free hand to his hair, the only waves that he can think of. Granted his hair is now getting a bit lank from its lack of washing, but the persistent waves are still there. He furrows his brow, well aware of how baffled he looks, startling at the strange noise that erupts from John before realising it is the sound of a sudden, rough laugh. The sound unexpected in the bleak hospital room.

“Idiot.” The gentle insult surprises Sherlock into his own low chuckle, the normalcy of John’s taunt alleviating some of the stress that has been sitting heavily on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Drink?” John asks, running his tongue over dry lips. Sherlock silently rebukes himself for not anticipating John’s needs. He reaches for the fresh jug of water, pouring a small amount out. With great reluctance he releases John’s hand, faltering briefly before moving to support John so that he can lean slightly up and take small sips of water from the glass. When John indicates he has had enough Sherlock carefully lowers him down so that his head rests once more upon the pillow.

Sherlock hesitates for only a moment before giving in to temptation and linking their hands back together, cursing his pale skin and the flush of colour he knows is now riding high on his cheeks.

“Waves?” John queries again, making a vague gesture with his hand. He swallows, trying to force some saliva down his obviously sore throat, causing Sherlock to wince in sympathy. “Sea.” John’s speech is already beginning to slur and his eyelids are drooping, exhaustion starting to wash over him. Sherlock knows it is to be expected but still the fear of John not waking if he sleeps again threatens to overwhelm him. Instead he tries to decipher what John may mean with his perplexing words.

“The sea? I’m sorry, I don't understand.” Sherlock shakes his hand, his worried eyes on John, seeking answers. It pains him, the old ‘him’ Sherlock amends, to admit to not understanding something but he cannot make the connection with what John is trying to tell him.

“Picnic.” John licks his lips before accepting another sip of water, nodding his thanks. He wiggles his fingers and waits until Sherlock links their hands once more before trying to speak. “Us.” He swallows again, fighting valiantly against the tiredness that threatens to engulf him. “Our dau -.” John cuts himself off mid-word, leaving Sherlock mentally scrabbling for what the curtailed word could be. John is now intently studying their surroundings again, taking in the sterile white walls, the medical machines with their lights and beeps, before allowing his gaze to fall upon Sherlock, sitting tired and careworn beside him.

“Shit!” The expletive loud and abrasive after the quiet intimacy of only a few seconds earlier.

“John! What is it?” Sherlock is immediately on high alert, his free hand fluttering uselessly above John, anxiety tightening once more in his chest even as he fights to stay calm.

John’s smile has vanished without a trace but his grip is tight, almost to the point of pain, on Sherlock’s hand. 

“Dream.” John replies sadly, refusing to meet Sherlock’s eye.

“You’re making no sense. Let me go and fetch a nurse.” Sherlock makes to stand but John’s continued hold prevents him.

“I’m ok.” John attempts to reassure him but Sherlock can’t shake off the feeling that he has missed something of great importance. “Stay. Please.”

Sherlock concedes and attempts to feign relaxation in his chair, all the while alert for John’s symptoms worsening. Their conversation has obviously exhausted John but he seems content to let a comfortable silence fall between them. It takes a few minutes more of this warm silence for John’s eyes to take longer and longer opening after each blink.

“Stay.” John requests once more, his speech barely more than a breath, before he finally falls back to sleep. His hand still safe in Sherlock’s.

“Always.”

It is only when a nurse quietly enters the room that Sherlock realises, with a sudden jolt of anger, that they hadn't been in to check on John.

“Where the hell have you been?” His words are sharp, his voice a muted growl. To her credit the nurse doesn't wince or shy away.

“We have found that in cases similar to Doctor Watson’s it is less traumatic for the patient if they wake and spend the first few minutes in the presence of a loved one.” She moves to manually double-check John’s pulse against the computer read out.

“How can you know what is happening?” Sherlock demands, fighting to keep his voice level so not to disturb John.

“The readout is shared from here to the Nurses’ station, where we have people permanently monitoring it.” Her attention remains on John even as she talks with Sherlock. “You also have a window in this room. Rest assured, Mr Holmes, we are aware of Doctor Watson’s condition at all times. Mrs Watson has also been informed that her husband is awake.”

When the nurse leaves the room, satisfied with her patient’s progress, Sherlock decides to calculate how long John had been left ‘alone’ since waking up. The answer that Sherlock arrives at shocks him; less than fifteen minutes. Less than fifteen minutes and yet it felt both forever and fleeting to Sherlock.

Leaving John’s side only to relieve himself or eat some food in the nurses room, Sherlock passes the time watching the door, dreading Mary’s arrival, and taking small, unplanned naps, jolting awake in fear. His nurse, Gethin, visits him to check on his progress, examining his wound with gentle fingers, assuring him that he is healing well. Gethin leaves with a parting reminder that the stress Sherlock is under is keeping the muscles tense and causing the spikes in pain.

John wakes two more times. The first time is only brief and he requests a drink before drifting back off to sleep. The second time he is awake slightly longer but still appears very muddled.

“Did I get shot on a case?” He queries, confusion heavy on his brow.

Sherlock hesitates before answering. “Something like that.” He watches as John acknowledges this, his confusion still evident even as he drifts back to sleep.

At some point John’s hand had slipped from Sherlock’s and Sherlock had not held it again, not wanting Mary to see and cause trouble for John. Sherlock’s hand now feels empty and cold and he misses John’s touch intensely.

“Still here, Sherlock?” Mary’s voice announces her arrival, her displeasure at his presence plain.

“As you can clearly see.” He looks at her briefly, taking in her simple outfit of shirt and jeans, the ever-present red coat and her carefully dishevelled hair; before returning his focus to John.

“Are you going to leave?” Mary questions, the weary tone of her voice indicating she already knows the answer.

“Nope.”

Mary nods and sighs. “They informed me he woke up, that he was talking. What did he have to say?”

“Not much. Initially he seemed confused, talked about waves before saying something about a dream. Another time he asked if he had been shot whilst on a case.”

“And?” Mary studies Sherlock warily.

“And I avoided giving a definite answer either way.”

“Very noble.”

“I didn't do it for you!” Sherlock spits. “I didn't think it would be conducive to John’s healing.”

“I know exactly who you did it for. And why.” She flashes a grim smile in his direction before moving closer to John’s bed, resting her thigh close to his.

“John love?” She speaks softly, her voice more tender than Sherlock has heard it in days. He knows it’s only another aspect of the facade she wears but it still worries him that John may not remember, or see through, Mary deceptions. “It’s me, Mary.” She lightly strokes his cheek and John’s eyelids flutter.

“Shhhrr”

“John. Mary is here.” Sherlock interrupts, his eyes darting towards Mary, catching the end of an angry grimace.

“Mary?” John murmurs sleepily, wincing as he tries to move.

Sherlock uses the bed controls to raise the head up so that John can see everyone in the room more clearly.

“Hello, love.” Mary smiles before pressing a kiss to his cheek, rubbing the lipstick away, non too gently, with her thumb.

“Mary?” John queries again, clearly unsure if he is still dreaming. 

Sherlock anticipates John’s need for a drink, passing him the glass and helping him raise it to his lips, steadying his hand. John smiles his gratitude. The smile is enough to take the edge off the glare that Mary directs at Sherlock.

“Yes love. How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been run over by a bus.” It’s the longest thing John has said since waking from his operation but Sherlock doesn't resent Mary for being the one to receive it. There’s something to be said about the quiet trust that comes from sitting in friendly quiet.

Mary’s overly bright laugh does nothing to hide the concern behind her next query. “What do you remember?”

“Not much.” Mary barely manages to stifle her sigh of relief. “A ruined house? A wheelchair? Then just darkness.” John groans in obvious frustration at his inability to remember more.

“Don’t worry, love. I’m sure you’ll remember soon.” 

For the next hour Mary happily regales John with idle gossip, rarely giving him the opportunity to speak, much to his growing aggravation and exhaustion. He never has liked being treated like an invalid to be coddled.

“Mary? Mary!” John finally manages to get enough force behind his words to stop Mary mid babble.

“I’m right here, John. There’s no need to shout.” She chastises.

“I’m sorry, love.” Sherlock flinches at the endearment, looking down when Mary smirks in his direction. “I’m just really tired, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind heading home a little early?”

“Hmm.” She studies him critically before deciding to believe him. “OK. I’ll be back bright and early tomorrow. Love you.” She drops a distracted kiss to his hair. “You too, Sherlock. Let him rest.”

Not wishing to tire John further, and knowing that Mary will not visit again until tomorrow, Sherlock decides to spend some time in the nurses’ room. By the time he has reached the door to exit John’s room Mary has already left and is well out of earshot.

“Sherlock. Can you stay?” John unknowingly echoes his earlier request. Sherlock nods and returns to his chair, leaning forward, his linked hands between his knees in an effort to stop him reaching out for John.

“What am I missing, Sherlock? Why don’t I feel …” He halts, obviously searching for the appropriate word. “Safe around Mary anymore?”

“John.” Sherlock warns. 

“I know something happened, Sherlock, and I know Mary is somehow involved. I’m not an idiot.” John insists, hints of his former stubbornness evident.

“It’s not my story to tell.” Sherlock says in an attempt to calm John down, not wanting him to do something to exhaust himself further.

“As if that has ever stopped you before!” John grinds out, no sooner than the words are out than regret sits heavily in his eyes. “That was uncalled for. Sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to apologise for, you only spoke the truth.” Sherlock presses on when John attempts to apologise again. John owes him no apology. Sherlock knows that he is the one in the wrong and that knowledge sits heavy in his chest. “It’s quite a long story, are you sure you are up to it?”

“I have to be. I need to know what is going on and I need you to be the one to tell me.”

Sherlock wants to take John’s hand again but doesn’t, John has shown no indication that he remembers the physical comfort they sought from each other; and even if he did, Sherlock knows that doesn't necessarily mean that John would welcome a repeat of the gesture.

“I’m not sure how much you remember.” Sherlock states, his tone questioning.

“I remember going to Magnussen’s office, you proposing to Janine,” John grimaces and Sherlock is left wondering if it is at the idea of Sherlock marrying or the idea of marriage in general. “I remember you rushing off.” He pauses, closing his eyes in an effort to bring the floating images into sharper clarity. When he next speaks it is in little more than a horrified whisper. “You were shot?”

“I was.” Sherlock confirms, the need to offer comfort clawing at him.

“Who shot you? No. Wait.” John instructs, eyes searching Sherlock’s features, looking for clues in the same manner that Sherlock gathers data at a crime scene. “Mary. Mary shot you.” Sherlock gives a short nod when John looks to him for confirmation. “Christ! Why the fuck would she do that? You’re her friend!” He stops, confused. “What the hell was she even doing there?”

“I could smell perfume when we entered, do you remember?” He waits for John to nod. “It was Claire de la Lune, the perfume that both Mary and Lady Smallwood favour. I presumed, erroneously as it turns out, that it was Lady Smallwood that was in the building. I went upstairs and saw someone, all in black, threatening a cowering Magnussen at gunpoint.”

“Mary?” John asks, his tone grim.

“I’m sorry, John.” John gives him another tight nod, his anger seemingly keeping his exhaustion at bay. “I confronted her, still believing her to be Lady Smallwood. It was only when she turned around to face me that I realised my mistake.”

“Did she panic and shoot in error?” John pleads.

Sherlock shakes his head, not wanting to say the words aloud.

“Shit.” John looks at his hands where they clench in the sheets. “What else?”

“I offered to help her, but she didn't want my aid. I tried to reason further with her. She told me she would shoot me but I didn't believe her, I thought she was just scared. I was wrong.”

“She gave you a chance? Showed remorse?” The same pleading tone is there and it hurts Sherlock to the core. “Tell me the truth.”

“No. I don’t believe she did. The shot was designed to kill me, but slowly, ensuring a painful and lingering death.”

John turns his face away, his chest heaving with his effort to stay calm. It takes him a few minutes but when he turns back to Sherlock his face is devoid of any emotion. 

“OK. Right.” He sniffs, his face stern. “Do we know why she was there? What Magnussen has over her? He's a master blackmailer after all.” John avoids the fact that Mary had almost succeeded in killing Sherlock; he remembers now that Sherlock had flatlined on the operating table. It’s all too much for him to take in currently, so he ignores it. For now.

“No.”

“Sherlock. I know that you will have formed your own deductions. You will tell me.” There is more than a hint of steel in his voice.

“I have very little evidence to support what I am about to say, John.” He warns. “Her accent is inconsistent, indicating she isn't originally from Britain or that she has spent at least some of her formative years out of the country. She is confident with a gun, her poise and aim indicating that it is likely to be something more than a hobby.” He unconsciously moves his hand to hover over his wound. “ Her poise and aim are perfect, speaking of intense training and years honing her skills. The skills of an assassin, in fact. And up until five years ago she did not appear to exist, apparently taking her name from a gravestone at that time.” Sherlock takes a breath, focusing on John. John looks exhausted but grim determination is clear in the set of his jaw.

“And me? What happened to me? How did I end up here?”

“I thought you deserved to know who shot me, I didn't think you would stop hunting until you found an answer. So I wanted you to find the information out in a controlled manner, from her own lips so that you would believe it. I thought that was what I had arranged. A dark corridor, a possible decoy, her photograph beamed on the outside of the building. I thought it would all appeal to her sense of drama. I believed that she would want to show off in front of me, show off her skills, I wanted her to see ‘me’ weak and defenceless in the wheelchair, attached to my drugs. I thought she’d be happy to show me how much better than me she was. I meant for you to be safe, to be out of harm’s way. I just needed for you to see what she could be like.”

“What happened?” Once more John’s voice is choked with emotion, his mask gone.

“She called my bluff. She took the opportunity to finish the job off properly, shooting at what she believed to be me.” Sherlock shudders, just speaking of the events takes him back to the empty house, powerless to prevent the events unrolling. “It was you that she mistakingly shot. Nothing more than a graze, thanks to your quick reflexes but unfortunately you crashed into the brick wall head-first, this resulted in a subdural haematoma. You underwent an operation recently to remove it.”

For a long while John remains silent, his fists clenching in his sheets. He bites at the inside of his cheek, a sign that he is deep in thought.

“Why does everyone keep lying to me?” The words are quiet, lacking their earlier steel.

“To protect the people they care about; at least that was my motivation.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I wasn't having a go at you. I know you lied for the love of your friends, to keep us safe.” John offers a fleeting smile, one that doesn't reach his eyes. “But Mary? I don't understand why she never spoke to me about it, why she never trusted you. It seems that Mary is only protecting Mary.” A strangled sound escapes John, one Sherlock recognises as John trying to repress deep emotion. “Sherlock, can I have a moment?”

Sherlock nods, fighting against his need to stay with John. With a heavy heart he exits the room, leaving John to his thoughts. Sherlock engages in mindless chit-chat with the nurses for several minutes before visiting the small toilet facilities. He takes the opportunity to wash his hands and face, splashing warm water under his arms in an effort to freshen up, before running damp, shaking fingers through his hair.

Sherlock nervously re-enters John’s room, unsure of what awaits him. Seeing John valiantly fighting against tears is not entirely unexpected but it hits Sherlock directly in the chest, causing him physical pain. The anguish that lines John’s face is too much for Sherlock’s self-control and he doesn't hesitate, going straight to John’s side, resting a comforting hand on John’s shoulder.

“She wasn't supposed to be like that.” John chokes out.

Sherlock’s brow creases in concern, his lips parting in readiness for speech. 

“A psychopath!” John exclaims bitterly. “Is everyone I know a fucking psychopath?” John braces himself, prepared for an affirmative answer.

“No.” Sherlock reassures him, taking a moment to form his answer. “Most people you know are the usual mix; anxious, happy, introvert, extrovert.” He pauses, biting on the inside of his cheek. “And one high functioning sociopath.” He decides to take a risk. “That’s me by the way. Hello.”

The choked laugh that John emits startles them both. “Timing, Sherlock.” John gently chides, a small smile lifting his careworn cheeks, even as the threatened tears begin to fall. He swipes at them angrily, as more fall he bows his head, covering his eyes with his hand. The tears fall in earnest, streaking down his cheeks and dripping on to his hospital gown.

Once more Sherlock acts on emotional instinct alone, allowing his body to do what it needs for once. He moves to sit on the bed, the outside of his hip flush with the outside of John’s, and wraps his right arm around John, gently rubbing his back in an effort to soothe him. Slowly, and with infinite care, Sherlock eases John closer to him before bringing his left hand up to rest at the nape of John’s neck. John tenses fleetingly before allowing himself to rest his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder, letting Sherlock comfort him with unexpectedly gentle hands and words. Eventually John moves his hand from where it still covers his eyes to rest, damp and heavy, on Sherlock’s chest, instinctively mindful of his wound site.

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to kudos, comment and/or subscribe! (Either to just this story or to me as an author)  
> Come and find me on tumblr or twitter under the user name Thortonsheart, I'm always happy to say hello and chat. xx


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